There's Always Tomorrow
by Bagatelle
Summary: Memories of a military academy, corrupt superiors, and family secrets make up the legacy of two young veterans: how they met, became friends, made each other stronger, and grew apart over the years. GregoryChristophe
1. Running

There's Always Tomorrow

"_Well I don't know what I'm looking for  
__But I know that I just want to look some more  
__And I won't be satisfied_  
'_Til there's nothing left that I haven't tried  
__For some people it's an easy choice  
__But for me there's a devil and an angel's voice  
__Well I don't know what I am looking for  
__But I know that I just want to look some more…  
__Well I don't know what I'm living for  
__But I know that I just want to live some more  
__And you hear it from the strangers in your head, from friends  
__That love never dies and love never ends  
__And I don't wanna argue, no I don't wanna fight  
_'_Cause you're always wrong and I'm always right  
__Well I don't know what I'm living for  
__But I know that I just want to live some more…"_

—"What I'm Looking For", Brendan Benson

* * *

So how many of you pissed yourselves when you saw that this was finally up? 

Hahaha, I'm kidding, I'm kidding. I don't really want to know. But it's about time, huh? I've been working on this for what…three months, four months now? Wtf. Greg and Chris need more stories about them, I'm telling you…there's only like, two other ones out there so far, courtesy of some dear friends of mine…:(

Here I go, decapitating the Wasteland again. XD

I do not understand Christophe/Kyle in the slightest. I'm sorry, but it's kind of dumb to me. I guess…Kyle is too Jewish, and Christophe is too…French. XD I don't even know, but I don't like it. I mean, I get the justification behind it…but seriously, guys. It's like Cartman/Timmy…it's a pairing merely to be a pairing. Does that make sense? Probably not. LMAO.

But don't worry, KBF, I still love you.

Anyway, this here is my attempt at explaining Gregory's link to the Mole…meaning that I plan on trying to convince you that I know; 1.) how the two of them know each other (a_durr_ XD), 2.) why Gregory carries Mole's address around with him, 3.) why Gregory bursts into song when they're plotting to go and rescue Terrance and Phillip, 4.) just why Greg is interested in La Resistance in the first place, 5.) why Mole was so quick to help Stan, Kyle, and Cartman after they mentioned Gregory's name, and 6.) just why the Mole is…the Mole.

Among other things.

Y'all know who this is for. **Qindarka**, my love, you keep the fires of passion lit in my heart. Here's looking at you, kid. For **Oyaji AKA Zidane 2003**, who wrote what is definitely _the_ best story in the entire universe, _Parable of a Boy Named Gregory_. I'm telling you…if he can make me cry and feel sick with love, he can do anything. Dear Allan, I stole Gregory's last name from you. (love) For **KyleBroflovskiFan**…dearest Amelia, you are a great inspiration to me. I look eagerly forward to more _Fierté Dedans_. :3 Also for **ShikamaruNoMiko**, without whom this would probably not exist. Yay for her! She has corrupted me!

Everybody loves, everybody loves, _Gregory and Christophe!_ And anyone who says they don't is a bloody liar. :P

I 'ope zat you enjoy eet…

**So that you know:** Ms. Wilma Williams's Military Academy for Boys is a fictitious place. Any and all similarities between it and any other military academy already or previously in existence is strictly coincidental. All characters portrayed in this story are fictitious and should therefore _not_ be lusted after, you naughty fankids you.

* * *

**Chapter One**

He comes here often.

The bridge has been his place late at night ever since he moved back here a year ago, once college was over with. He never really plans to come here, though; he just has urges late at night, gets up, and walks around outside. He winds up here most of the time, though other nights he finds himself in front of a house that once belonged to someone he hasn't spoken to in nearly six years, now. Gregory Thorne, the twenty-three year old man with curly golden-bronze hair, sitting on a desolate Colorado bridge at eleven thirty at night…isn't really a man so much as he is a boy. And he admits it to himself as he sits here, looking down into the water of the river that flows so far down below him. He would never admit it to anyone else, he tells himself, because he's too proud. He learned that much from his old friend.

Gregory is expecting him. He knows he'll come. Some strange feeling in the pit of his stomach is telling him that the two of them were destined to meet again here tonight, though the precise _reason_ for their meeting still eludes him. He looks down at his polished shoes with a sort of contempt; the moonlight shimmers off of them like it does on the water below, and Gregory half-wishes that he cared little enough to kick them off. But he paid sixty-five ninety-nine for these shoes two weeks ago, so he doesn't really want to lose them so quickly.

The wind blows, and he smells the faint odor of smoke from a Camel cigarette on the breeze, tickling his nostrils tantalizingly. He recalls the smell from nights spent sleeping in a tent in the middle of nowhere with the other boys and _him_…he who would never sleep in front of anyone else. He whose cigarette always glowed somewhere off in the corner of the tent while everyone else dozed off and had colorful dreams of home. Gregory recalls that as they got older, the tents got smaller, and eventually it was just Gregory and _him_ and his cigarettes. He smoked Camels because they were cheaper than Marlboros, and he hardly ever swore, Gregory remembers, when they were alone. Only around the other boys. He still wonders why sometimes.

The blonde picks his head up when the scent grows stronger, looks around; he would give anything to see what his friend has become. He's never known it before, but he's been anxious for the past six years about this very day; the day of their reunion. His fingers grip the cold concrete, and they're trembling a little beneath the pastel-orange sleeves of his work shirt. Gregory knows he's a pretty boy; he always has been, and that's always what's pissed his friend off. He's never been hard enough. He's always cried in public. Gregory can scarcely remember a time when _he_ ever cried; can hardly remember a time in his younger years when he had thought that _he_ could feel anything other than limitless rage. _But there _were_ times_, he thinks, shuddering as the odor of cancer-inducing smoke curls ever more powerfully beneath his nose. _There are always those few nights to think of...when we were alone, and when he would speak to me and treat me like a human being. And then _that_ night..._

Gregory reaches up and touches his bottom lip, where there's a small, raised section of scar tissue, running from the inside of his lip down to where his lip curves and becomes his chin. He remembers what he said that night, and it makes him sick to his stomach. He remembers what his friend said that night, and it makes him even sicker. He remembers what they _did_. It got them both into so much trouble…but who were they to deny the truth? He wonders if that truth isn't the truth anymore, or if maybe the ring on his left hand is just a lie in itself. He wonders how long he's been keeping all these questions from himself.

…The sound of footsteps reaches his ears next; the heavy, dragging footsteps of someone who has seen far more than they ever wanted to. Gregory knows those footsteps well. He glances down the bridge and sees the faint yellow-orange glow of embers on the end of a cigarette, glowing brighter as its owner moves closer to him. A faint smile comes to Gregory's lips as his heart beats faster for just a moment. He wonders, for a split-second, if his friend will still be bothered by all the things he was bothered by before, or if he's changed, as Gregory has. The black combat boots thud on the cement more quickly for a moment, and Gregory has the brief sensation of being watched. He sees out of the corner of his eye that his friend throws his cigarette over the railing of the bridge before stepping the rest of the way up to him. There's something militant about this young man; there always has been. But Gregory likes that about him.

"_Aló_."

"…You are _late_, Christophe," Gregory murmurs, though he's still smirking. "This is very unlike you." The Frenchman grunts and kneels half-interestedly beside his oldest friend, his hands clasped together in his lap.

"I wasn't aware zat we were meeting 'ear in ze first place," he says, his voice low and rumbling, thick with the accent that he has tried persistently to shed, but that has refused to leave him. His heritage haunts him, and as he looks over at Gregory with deep, green eyes, the blonde knows that's not the only thing. Gregory looks back, and after an awkward moment, smiles are exchanged. Gregory's eyes trace the form of Christophe's shaggy brown hair in the moonlight; it's still as haphazard as ever. He wonders if his friend has a gun hidden in the confines of the thick field jacket that he's wearing.

Gregory sighs and beams at Christophe. "It's certainly been a while, hasn't it?" His own British accent has faded into almost nothing as the years have passed, and he wonders if it's because God truly _does_ hate Christophe, as the Frenchman persistently assured him in their younger years.

"…Yes," comes the response. "I 'aven't seen you…since…well…since we parted last. I lose track of ze years, sometimes. 'Ow 'ave you been, Gregory? I trust zat I find you well?"

"Of course," he lies, and both of them know it. "How have things been for you?"

"Eh…I work for ze Army, now. Surprising, no? I mees ze Academy more often zan not…" Christophe mumbles. Gregory looks over and can see age lines on his friend's face, even though he's hardly a month older than Gregory himself. "Do you evar mees eet, Gregory?"

"Every day," Gregory replies softly. A vague smile graces his friend's rough lips.

"We certainly 'ad good times back zen, didn't we?"

"…Yes," Gregory agrees. "I hated it at first…but things got better. They always did…when you were there."

"Pfah," Christophe growls. "You're such a pussy, Gregory. You always were."

"Well, you're an arsehole."

"So zen we are both dirty body parts. Zees eez 'ow we are alike."

Gregory laughs lightly, and he hates himself for it afterward; it's a soft, airy sound, like a birdcall more than a masculine chuckle. He cuts himself short, and the Frenchman notices. He snickers a little under his breath, and Gregory feels his heart thumping in his chest against the smooth sound. He loves Christophe's laugh, because it's such a rare thing, like his smile. He shudders when the wind blows again.

"It's a bit cold out tonight, no?" he asks vaguely, though Christophe understands. He sits soundlessly beside his blonde friend, his knees folded, and he pulls a pack of Camels out of his back pocket. Gregory watches the Frenchman take one out with his teeth before offering him one; he shakes his head politely. He's never liked smoking; he would do it sometimes, when he was out with his college friends, but he never got anything out of it. Drinking, either. But he watches Christophe with a bit of a yearning eye as his cracked lips form an accepting "O" around the cancer stick, and he lights it with a match, to seem more sophisticated. Gregory spies a thin, light moustache growing in on his old friend's upper lip, and it makes him smile a little.

He wonders if Christophe ever thinks about the long years they spent growing up together, and all the good times they shared, or if he only remembers the solemn, lonely nights of camping and the gentle friction of their young fingers scraping against canvas and polyester, cold and seeking each other in the dark. Gregory wonders if Christophe remembers anything about stars or The Anthem or praying, or if he blocked it all out so he would only have to dwell on the painful things, like he always did before. Christophe has always been about taking things like a man; going into battle headfirst, no matter what lies ahead. Gregory liked that about him sometimes, though other times it was a little frightening. Failure was never an option in Christophe's eyes…and Gregory wonders if, because they haven't spoken in so long, their friendship has failed, to him.

Christophe seems to sense this doubt in his friend's mind, and he glances over, taking a long drag on his cigarette. His muscles relax visibly, but Gregory fidgets, his fingers cold without gloves. Christophe is wearing black gloves that lack fingers; they're not the ones he was issued back in the Academy (those would be far too small for him by now), but they are of a similar style. There's a box-shaped piece of fabric cut out of the back of the glove, and he has the part that's supposed to cover his forearms rolled down around his wrists, just like he wore his Academy gloves. Gregory can see, even in the dim light, that Christophe's fingers are callused and dirty. He can scarcely remember what it felt like to hold Christophe's hand when they were just boys, alone and afraid in the middle of the night because they didn't know where they were or where they were going. He picks at his cuticles, trying to recall the feeling.

"I 'ave meesed you, Gregory," Christophe sighs, looking up at the sky. "And I 'ave been sinking about everysing…quite a lot, recently…ze Academy…ze trips we took…'ow our muzars always dragged us up to zat cabin in ze middle of nowhere during vacations…"

"I liked that old cabin," Gregory quips, feeling like he should be a part of this conversation, too. "It felt more like home than _this_ place ever has."

"Eet was too cold," coughs the Frenchman. "Far too cold and empty during ze vinter and autumn."

"Just because you always stayed home during the week while I went to school," Gregory murmurs. Christophe looks over at him, interested for a moment. Then he grunts and looks back away.

"…You're right," he says softly. "I deed mees you while you were at school."

"You could have come with me if you wanted."

"Muzar wanted to teach me ze book sings 'erself."

Gregory falls silent after this, knowing that Christophe will just continue to argue the matter as long as he does. The Frenchman takes another long, satisfied drag on his cigarette and puffs out smoke rings, his second soft chuckle of the night escaping him as some thought strikes his fancy. The blonde feels his nails drumming on the concrete beneath him.

"…Gregory…" asks the rough, cracked voice in a tone that Gregory knows well, "do you recall…when we first met?"

Gregory smiles warmly over at Christophe, his eyes sparkling with reminiscence. "From the beginning, then?"

"Of course. Zat eez ze only way."

"Very well," Gregory says, settling back and preparing for a long night of storytelling. "If I remember correctly, it was a cold day in October…"

* * *

It was a cold day in October, and five-year-old Gregory Thorne was being pulled closely along by his mother down a busy New York street. He could hardly feel his hand through her tight, bony grip, and it irritated him a little, though he had other things to pester her with than pleas of; "let me go, Mum, let me _go!_" Buildings, cars, and people passed everywhere around him, and he struggled to keep up with his mother, his tiny feet stamping on the cracked cement sidewalks of the city as the smells of car exhaust and roadside concessions swirled around him in the air. A lot of people were talking on phones or smoking; walking in and out of shops while children ran down the sidewalks, grinning and chasing each other. Some people sat in alleyways reading newspapers under the shelter of cardboard boxes or marquees, but it was completely normal to Gregory, who had lived here with his mother for nearly a year, now. 

"_Food!_" the young British boy demanded, his golden curls bouncing from side to side as he stumbled along behind her. "Mum I'm _hungry I WANT LUNCH!_"

"Well you'll just have to _wait_, Gregory," she sighed heavily, jerking him into a tall blue building that was unfamiliar to him. "Mum has work to do with the homeless first."

A bell on the glass door jingled as she pushed it open and led her son inside, and Gregory was hit with warmth that made his flushed cheeks flush even more. The blonde woman ushered her son into a corner with an order of; "now you be good, Gregory, while Mum does her work," before hanging up her coat and signing in at a desk, and Gregory was left to climb up onto a cushioned red chair and entertain himself. His short legs dangled over the edge of the seat, and he looked around the room carefully, swinging his feet crazily as he did so. There were a few people sitting around looking tired and dirty, and Gregory noticed that this place had a slightly bad smell to it, like an old sandwich or dirty socks, or both mixed together. He scrunched up his freckled nose at the odor, his blue eyes scanning the room for toys. He saw his mother leave the room. The grungy old man sitting next to him sneezed loudly.

"Bleshoo," Gregory mumbled, earning himself a toothless grin from the man. Gregory looked away from him and tried not to appear frightened, even though he was. He didn't know where his mother was anymore, and he was now alone in this strange, foul-smelling place. His tiny fingernails dug into the cushions on the seat, and he felt his eyes starting to dampen when he saw something intriguing in the glass portal that led into the building.

A tall, gangly woman with ratty, wavy hair was pulling along a boy that looked about Gregory's age; a boy with big ears and spiky brown hair to match his mother's in color that jutted out from under a large hat, and with mean, screwed up green eyes that made Gregory wonder if he was in trouble of some kind. The boy was wearing mismatched clothes and a lot of them, too, but Gregory liked everything about him immediately. The boy's mother noticed Gregory sitting alone in his chair, and she murmured something that sounded like nonsense to her son, who protested back in the same nonsense language that was dimly familiar to Gregory. He thought he had heard his mother use some of those words before, though they were meaningless to him. Gregory cocked his head to the side curiously, having forgotten all about the toothless old man sitting beside him and the fact that his mother was nowhere to be found.

"_Go_, Christophe!" the brown-haired boy's mother commanded him, pushing him over toward Gregory. The tall boy stumbled a little but went, moving slowly over toward the chairs and eyeing Gregory contemptuously as he went. He took his hat off, stuck it in his pocket, and wound up folding his arms over his chest and pouting against the chair on Gregory's other side. The blonde-haired, blue-eyed boy watched his new companion with an uncertain gaze as the woman approached the desk and started to speak in slow English to the man behind the counter.

"…_Aló_…I am…Nicole Delorne…I do not…speak much English…"

Gregory blinked at the boy who had been called "Christophe" by his mother, and after a few minutes of persistent staring, Christophe looked back. "_Pah!_" he barked, his lower lip jutting out irritably and his eyes narrowed into angry slits. Gregory smiled his most winning smile at Christophe, but the boy barely even blinked at him. His bushy brown eyebrows lowered further and he looked as though he would have rather enjoyed hitting Gregory if it would mean getting him to stop smiling like that.

"'Ello," Gregory said cheerfully. "I'm Gregory. I'm five yeahs old and cun do times tables up to six!"

Christophe was breathing hard, like an angry animal of some kind, but Gregory's gaze would not falter, so he was reduced to an answer. "…_Christophe!_" Christophe snapped, jerking his head around and glaring at the other side of the room instead of at Gregory. Apparently, he had understood very little of what Gregory had said, because he said nothing else after that, other than a few things in that soft nonsense language that Gregory didn't understand.

Ms. Delorne was deep in discussion with a new representative who spoke her language and was getting her forms filled out quite quickly, now. Gregory lost a bit of interest in Christophe and started wondering where his own mother was again, half-watching as the little brunette boy stomped over to an empty chair beside a young woman with red hair who was sitting on the other side of the room. He shot his fiery gaze down at the floor from where he sat, rubbing the toes of his used-looking shoes together anxiously. Gregory's focus of attention was propelled back to Christophe again when the little boy spat on the floor, and his mother turned around and yelled something at him to make him stop. He snapped back into his chair and looked defeated for a few seconds while Gregory wondered if he knew how to play Flipslip.

He got up and wandered over to Christophe, still smiling merrily away, and he gestured for Christophe to join him on the floor. The brunette did nothing and said nothing to acknowledge the blonde. "C'meah," Gregory urged, flapping his arms. Christophe looked at him as if he had painted himself bright orange and was eating broccoli with a golden fork, but slid off of his chair anyway. The boys' eyes were just a little uneven, with Christophe standing a bit taller. He looked down at Gregory with a hint of curiosity in his eyes.

"Mmm?" he asked when Gregory held his hands out, palms up. Gregory took hold of Christophe's wrist and placed it palm-down on his own hand, then gestured for Christophe to do the same with the other. He did. Gregory wasn't sure how well Christophe could understand him, but he tried to explain to him the rules of the game as best he could.

"This is a game called Flipslip! You try to pull your hands away as fast as you cun before I turn my hands over and hit yours. 'Kay?"

Christophe had to think for a while, but then he nodded slowly. Gregory beamed. Then, being a little boy who was eager to prove his worth in the realm of Flipslip, he promptly flipped his hands over and smacked the backs of Christophe's hands as hard as he could.

Christophe promptly screamed.

Before Gregory knew what was happening, an open palm collided with the side of his face, and he was on the floor with a stinging cheek and the weight of another boy pressing into his stomach. Thin hands were around his neck, and he was crying as Christophe shrieked things in his crazy language that sounded bad to Gregory, even though he had no idea what they meant.

"_Christophe! Christophe, NO!_"

"_Gregory!_"

He heard his mother calling for him, and then he knew that it was all right, but he cried harder anyway as Christophe's mother yanked her son off of him. He felt his mother's arms swoop protectively over him and pull him up into an embrace, and he grabbed her sleeves, watching Christophe out of the corner of his eye. The brunette boy's mother slapped him hard across the face, and he let out a little cry of submission, looking down at his shoes as she hissed angry nonsense words at him. Gregory felt his own mother flinch when Christophe's mother slapped her son a second time.

"_Vous êtes mauvais, Christophe! Vous êtes un enfant mauvais et horrible! Vous disgrâce votre famille_"

"…What's she saying, Mum?" Gregory asked softly, wiping tears from his stinging face.

"It…it's nothing, dear. Just something in French," Mrs. Thorne replied, stroking her son's curly hair with faintly trembling fingers. "He's just being scolded. Don't you worry about it."

Gregory wondered why Ms. Delorne hit her child, and why they didn't speak the same way that he and his mother did. He knew what "French" was—he knew that his mother spoke it quite fluently—though he didn't understand why Christophe and his mother didn't speak English at the same time. He tightened his hold on his mother's shirt, and she picked him up and carried him over to the front desk, engaging in a heated conversation with the clerk who had been talking to Christophe's mother. The clerk handed over the woman's papers without protest, and Gregory's mother read them over while he watched Christophe with a wary eye. Christophe's pale, mousy face was red where Ms. Delorne had slapped him.

"…Susan?" Gregory heard his mother say, "I think I might…like to take this job on. I think it would be good for Nicole's son…to have another little boy around to play with. And Gregory could use a friend, as well. I think once the two of them get used to each other…things will be all right. And besides…I need a new assignment. Marta just moved out two weeks ago."

"Are you sure, Katherine?" Susan, the French-speaking clerk, asked softly. Gregory's mother nodded and hugged her son. He hugged her back, not understanding what she was talking about. "…Well…all right. _Madamé! Madamé, __un mot, s'il vous plaît_"

Ms. Delorne abruptly stopped her conversation with her son, and she got up and approached the desk, speaking in rapid French to both Susan and Mrs. Thorne. Gregory's mother set him down, and he walked tentatively over to Christophe, who, in his mother's absence, had settled down on the floor and brought his knees up, folding his arms over his legs and burying his face in them. Gregory sat down in front of him and looked him over, hard. There was a lot of dirt on his too-big shoes, and in his hair. His clothes had holes in them and looked as though they were decades old. Christophe's hands were like claws around his elbows, the young tendons and knuckles raised in the skin as his fingers shook and dug into his arms. Gregory blinked, confused, and reached out and gently touched Christophe's shaggy hair. The French boy did nothing in retaliation.

"…I'm sorry," Gregory murmured, leaning forward on his knees and reaching down to rub Christophe's shoulder comfortingly. "I didn't mean to scare you."

Christophe lifted his head up a little, one of his mean green eyes glaring out at Gregory from between the gap. "…Fuck you, American," he hissed, his words angry and coated with malice. Gregory's eyebrows furrowed. He didn't know what that meant, or why Christophe hadn't accepted his apology. The French boy batted Gregory's hand away and hid his face in his arms again, grunting hotly. Gregory assumed that he didn't want to talk, though it bothered him because he didn't know why. He decided that it wouldn't bother Christophe much if he didn't have to respond to anything that Gregory said.

"…I'm not American, I'm British," the blonde boy muttered, folding his legs in front of himself. Christophe shuddered against his voice and adjusted his feet a little. Their mothers were still deep in discussion at the front desk. "…You hit me really hard, Christophe…"

"Pfah," Christophe replied dully. Gregory rubbed his throbbing face.

"…Why does your mum hit you?"

Christophe jerked up at the mention of his mother, his eyes wide for a moment, and Gregory wondered if the French boy really _did_ understand what he was saying, only he chose to fake it. Christophe's lips parted, as if he wanted to say something, but then he changed his mind and looked at the carpet to his left, his gaze angry and burning again. "Doesn't your mum love you?" Christophe's eyes narrowed further, and Gregory saw his new friend's nails digging into his pant legs. "…Christophe, cun you talk in English at all?"

"…Yes," Christophe mumbled, the word sounding weird to Gregory with the heavy, foreign accent. He sort of liked the way Christophe spoke, though; it sounded smooth, like cake frosting. He grinned.

"…Cun you tell me why your mum—?"

"_No_," the French boy hissed, giving Gregory a seething look. The blonde lowered his eyebrows a little.

"Oh, well…all right, then…"

"Eedyot," Christophe growled, his tiny hands balled into fists. Gregory opened his mouth to protest this remark, but his mother swept up from behind him and picked him up, planting a happy kiss on the side of his face and making him scrunch up his nose. Ms. Delorne picked up Christophe, as well, and the brunette linked his arms tightly around his mother's neck, closing his eyes into her shoulder. She smiled at Gregory, who gave her a confused look in response.

"Gregory, Ms. Delorne and Christophe are going to come and live with us for a while! Isn't that _exciting?_"

Gregory turned his head to look at his mother. "…You mean like that Spanish lady?"

"Yes, dear, precisely like that!" 

"…Oh," Gregory said softly, glancing back over at the back of Christophe's spiky brown hair. His mother was telling him what was going on in soft French, and Gregory heard Christophe murmur a few things back to his mother. He heard his own name in there a few times, spoken in hushed tones by that smooth, foreign voice. "…Okay, Mum."

Mrs. Thorne and Ms. Delorne carried their sons out of the homeless shelter, the British mother speaking cheerfully to her son about how _it will be almost like having a brother around_, and _won't that be lovely_, and _to celebrate we'll have pancakes for dinner tonight._ Gregory watched Christophe from over his mother's shoulder, and the French boy turned over in his mother's arms, as if he had sensed Gregory's gaze on his back. He blinked heavy green eyes at Gregory, locks of dirty brown hair in his face. Gregory waved at him, his blue eyes big and unsure, and he saw, for a split-second, a tiny smile on Christophe's pointed face. He smiled back, into his mother's shoulder, as they walked into the parking garage where Mrs. Thorne's old Volkswagon Jetta was waiting.

The car would have been very small and cramped for four adults, but the two boys fit comfortably in the back seats. Christophe looked around, amazed, for a few moments, but stopped when he saw that Gregory was staring at him. His face flushed and he glared out the window while Ms. Delorne murmured; "eet eez a…_lovely_ car, Katherine." Gregory heard his mother let out her little titter of a laugh.

"Oh, no…it's nothing, really."

They started the drive back home in relative silence, the two women occasionally engaging in brief discussions; sometimes in French, sometimes in English. Gregory looked out his window for a little bit, then quickly lost interest in the outside world, yawning as he realized that he was quite tired.

"…Hey Mum?"

"Yes, Gregory?"

"…What does 'fuck you' mean?"

A silence fell over the car, and Christophe looked immediately away from the window and over at Gregory, a look of pure terror on his face. Gregory, for some reason that he didn't know, felt immediately guilty for asking. His mother cleared her throat nervously.

"Why, honey? Where did you hear that?"

Christophe's eyes were pleading and wet. Gregory swallowed thickly. "Somebody said it while we were going to the car…that's all…I just want to know…"

Ms. Delorne grunted and looked out her window with a smirk on her face. Gregory's mother sighed.

"Don't worry about it, dear. That's just something that people who have problems with themselves say when they want to make _other_ people feel bad."

Gregory was still staring at Christophe, who, at this point, had turned carefully away from him and was wishing fire upon the passing buildings again. Gregory saw that his friend's shoulders were shaking, and he wanted to make him feel better, though he didn't know why he felt bad in the first place.

"…Where's your dad?" Gregory asked gently, once again earning himself a startled look from all parties present. Apparently, this was not the correct topic. His mother shook her head at him, signaling that this was yet another question he wasn't supposed to ask. He bit his lips together and looked down at the torn upholstery of his seat, strong green eyes still intent upon his face. He felt the seat beside him dip as Christophe moved over and sat right up next to him, breathing hard, wheezing breaths into his ear. The French boy waited until their mothers were speaking to one another again.

"…Fazur eez running," he whispered, his eyes sparkling in the corner of Gregory's gaze. "'E eez a bad man."

Gregory didn't need any more of an explanation than that. He bit his lower lip, glancing over at the green eyes that were barely three inches away from him. Christophe smelled faintly of kerosene and rotting fruit. Gregory yawned again, and Christophe—after a few seconds of trying to keep it in—yawned, too, only for a much longer time. Gregory noticed, for the first time, deep bags under Christophe's eyes, and he wondered if his friend slept well at all at night. Christophe gave Gregory a _don't-mind-if-I-do-thanks_ kind of look, then rolled over and rested his scruffy head on Gregory's shoulder. Gregory blinked, then, realizing that he was going to be used as a pillow for the remainder of their trip, decided to make himself comfortable, too. He leaned his own head against Christophe's and closed his eyes.

For a few more minutes, he listened to the bright French conversations taking place in the front seat, and then he felt his eyelids getting heavy. As Gregory began to doze off, he felt rough fingers close around his own; in his half-conscious state, he didn't think twice about them.

"…We are running, too," Christophe murmured, his words slurred, though not from his accent.

"…From what?" Gregory breathed, feeling his body starting to go limp. But Christophe was already fast asleep.


	2. Crayons

Okay…got some remarks about Christophe's accent, and I agreed that it needed to be changed. So I edited chapter one, and Christophe no longer says "V" in place of "W".

If you haven't already guessed, the majority of this story (meaning every chapter from now until at least the next-to-last one) is going to be a flashback. One very long, very in-depth flashback. Fun, no? I figured I'd done enough first-person-present-tense stories…just trying to expand my horizons a bit.

As usual, I'm glad you guys like it. Gregory/Christophe is just so adorable.

* * *

**Chapter Two**

Katherine Thorne lived in a three-bedroom apartment—one for herself, one for Gregory, and one for guests—though she and Gregory generally only used one, because Gregory had trouble sleeping more often than not and needed his mother there late at night. Ever since his father had died two and a half years ago, things had been different; the son who had once slept soundly on his own was now awoken by horrible nightmares and the sounds of monsters calling for him from under his bed. So Mrs. Thorne kept her son close by, just in case he needed her to fight the monsters off.

But now that the Delornes were moving in, things would be different.

Katherine urged Gregory inside gently, Ms. Delorne and Christophe following closely behind. Both of them looked intently around themselves, amazed by the simplest things, like the color of the paint on the wall or the floor molding. Gregory bit his lips together, watching Christophe as he carefully inspected a potted azalea on his mother's favorite end table. Mrs. Thorne beamed at her new roommates.

"Welcome home!" she said, taking their coats. Christophe seemed reluctant to give his up, but did so. She looked down at Gregory as she headed for the closet. "Sweetie, why don't you show Christophe your room? You'll be sharing it, now."

He blinked back up at her, his curls hanging in his face. "…But…but Mum…what about the monsters…?"

"Christophe will help you fight them off, honey. And if you really need Mum, I'll be right down the hall." She gave his rear end a motherly pat, nudging him toward the little brunette boy, who furrowed his eyebrows at Gregory and scowled when he realized that he was being approached again. Apparently, he had forgotten about sleeping on Gregory and holding his hand in the car. Gregory shuffled his feet meekly as his mother burst into French again, guiding Nicole around the house.

Christophe pouted for a moment, drawing himself up to be as tall as he could and looking down on Gregory arrogantly. He snorted. "Leetil beetch. I will show you 'oo eez een charge 'ear." The blonde boy blushed sheepishly, still not understanding half of what Christophe said. He held out his hand, and Christophe started, fearing another slap. His face screwed up when he realized he had leapt unnecessarily, and he smacked Gregory's hand away. "Don't touch me, you fucking beetch."

"…M-my mum wants me to…to show you where your bed is…"

"Hmph," Christophe grunted, folding his arms across his chest. "I am sleeping with you, no?"

"Um…" Gregory rearranged his feet again, looking down at his toes shyly. Christophe had an awfully strict handle over the English language when his mother wasn't around, Gregory noticed. "Y-yes…we…we'll be…sharing a room…"

Christophe was silent for a few moments, looking Gregory over; sizing him up. He grinned slyly at his new companion. "You are _afraid_ of me, Gregory, zat eez eet?" he stated more than asked, his voice as smooth as a newborn's skin. Gregory shivered and wished his mother were there.

"…No…"

He wouldn't admit it, even if he were, and Christophe knew it. The French boy laughed, his green eyes sparkling, and Gregory looked up at him, startled by the sound. Christophe didn't seem like the type of person who would laugh. The brunette stepped forward, placed both of his hands on Gregory's shoulders, and startled the hell out of the poor boy by kissing his forehead, as if in some ceremonial way, finalizing what he said next:

"I sink zat we will be ze best of friends, Gregory."

He then promptly hit Gregory hard enough in the back of the head to knock him to the floor, running off down the hall toward the unknown territories of the Thorne apartment and cackling evilly as he went.

Gregory got to his feet, his eyes watering and his head throbbing, his lower lip jutting out in an aggravated manner. He rubbed the back of his skull, toddling down the hall and searching for Christophe with spite brewing in his young mind. His head hurt, and he was tired; and now he was being forced to share his bedroom with this…this _animal?_ He didn't know how he was going to live.

He found Christophe in the proper room; Gregory's nearly unused bedroom, which boasted blue walls and a single bed against the right-hand wall, with a railing set up on the exposed side to prevent his falling out, and Veggie Tales blankets. Gregory had a small bookshelf on the opposite wall, its top surface adorned with superhero action figures, its shelves filled with coloring books and the numerous works of Dr. Suess. There was a window against the far wall that filtered in soft, afternoon light, with white, lacy curtains and handprints on the lower panes of glass. All of his toys were organized neatly in the corner to the left of the doorway, his closet and dresser full of clothes to the right, past the end of the bed. Christophe was standing in the middle of the room, his breathing strained, his head pointed down toward the floor, and Gregory approached him cautiously, not sure what to expect, now. He heard a faint sigh and stopped walking.

"…Where will I sleep, zen? On ze floor?"

"N-no…I…I think Mum will get you a cot…"

Christophe sat and brought his knees up again, sitting like he had in the lobby of the homeless shelter, with his elbows around his knees and his eyes in his arms. He mumbled angry French words to himself, and Gregory just stood in the doorway, scared half-insane of the little boy muttering to himself in his bedroom. Not sure what else to do, Gregory turned away from Christophe and preoccupied himself with clearing his Playskool desk of Beanie Babies, tugging it out of the corner and setting it up against the wall. He sat down in it, pulled paper and crayons out of a drawer in the front, and, with a final look at Christophe—who was still deep in conversation with himself—Gregory began to ignore his new friend.

Christophe didn't talk to himself for long. Gregory soon felt the French boy's presence over his shoulder, watching him as he made careful strokes with his crayons, drawing a fat, round sun in the sky and flat grass on the ground, as young children tend to do. He continued to draw, feeling strangely as though he were accomplishing something, with Christophe's hot breath grazing his ear and curious green eyes observing his every move. Gregory drew two little boys—one with curly yellow hair and blue eyes, the other with a lot of clothes and green eyes—and as he reached for the brown crayon, he felt Christophe's hand over his. He blinked up at his adversary.

"…S'matter?" he asked, confused. Christophe breathed for a few moments, his eyebrows furrowed, his lips pursed. He looked anxious about something.

"…What…what are you _doing?_"

Gregory swallowed and pointed to the picture. "I'm drawing. See, that's you, there…"

Christophe let out a pained sound, and Gregory looked back at him, a little worried. Their hands were still connected, heat gathering in Christophe's palm. The brunette blinked, his expression a little hurt. Gregory felt the strange sensation that Christophe had never seen crayons before, and that made him feel odd in the depths of his heart.

"…Can you…teach me 'ow to draw, Gregory?" Christophe asked softly, blushing a bit. Gregory gave him a look. Kids were supposed to know how to draw…or at least, he had _thought_ that they were. Apparently, formerly homeless children, like Christophe Delorne, had no say in the matter, and thus, could not do so. Gregory patted the little hand over his own lovingly, his smile like the sun in a hurricane to the shaggy-haired brunette.

"Of course I cun, Christophe," he replied soothingly, locating the brown crayon and holding it out toward his friend. "Here…you cun finish your hair."

Christophe took the wax stick somewhat hesitantly, gripping it with his fist instead of his fingers. Gregory took Christophe's fist in his hands and gently placed the tip of the crayon on the paper, guiding Christophe's unsure hand over the drawing and making little spikes of brown hair. Christophe's breathing was strained and nervous, and he leaned hard into Gregory's back, as if he were afraid that he would somehow mess up Gregory's lovely drawing, even with guidance. Eight seconds later, Christophe's hair was complete, and Gregory lifted his friend's fist from the paper, showing him what he had done. Christophe put the crayon down and touched the paper, smearing the colored wax a little with his fingers. Gregory grabbed the red and drew happy smiles on both of the little boys.

"There!" he announced, putting the red crayon back in the pile and beaming down at their creation. "It's done!"

Christophe looked the picture over thoughtfully, examining the lines he had helped make with a critiquing eye. He sighed obtusely and wandered away from the desk, and Gregory thought for a moment before turning around and fixing Christophe with a curious gaze. "Hey…how do you know so much English if your mum cun hardly speak any?"

The little French boy wandered over to the middle of the floor again, settling down and folding his legs over one another, Indian-style. He picked at a stray piece of fuzz on the carpet. "…I went to a teacher…" he murmured. "I know almost ze same amount of English as I know French. Muzar wants me to teach 'er English. She sent me to learn so zat I could understand what eez going on 'ear in America. So zat I can do well with ze ozar children."

"That's awful nice of her," Gregory murmured, smiling shyly at Christophe. The brunette frowned at him in response.

"Why are you so 'appy?"

Gregory blinked, a little startled by the question. He shrugged after a moment of contemplation. "…I don't know. I guess…because I like you, even if you _are_ a bit scary…and I'm happy that you're going to be living with us."

Christophe shivered, and Gregory wondered why; it wasn't cold at all in the room. The French boy closed his eyes and hugged himself, lowering his eyebrows and wrinkling the skin on the bridge of his nose. Gregory wondered why Christophe was so angry. "…I 'ave nuhsing to be 'appy about…"

"…But…we're friends now, aren't we?"

"Yes of course you stupeed fool," Christophe growled, shaking his head. "But…you do not understand…I 'ate eet 'ear…eet smells like ze sewer and eet eez too loud…"

"So why did you move here?"

Christophe glowered at Gregory, who was badly shocked by the searing hatred in his friend's emerald eyes. "…Zat eez none of your beezinus, _Gregory._"

"B-but…why New York…?"

Christophe sighed stiffly. "…We are poor. We spent nearly all of our money to simply get to America…Muzar applied us for American citizenship a year ago, when we first moved 'ear, and we are almost Americans. She eez almost able to get a job and get us off of ze streets."

"…Oh," Gregory murmured, fiddling with his fingers anxiously. He could tell that Christophe was angry with him, though he wasn't quite sure if he really had _reason_ to be angry. How was Gregory supposed to know that Christophe's mother wasn't able to get a job? "…I…I'm s—"

"Gregory!"

Both of the boys started, surprised by the call. Gregory scrambled to his feet and tripped out of his bedroom, toddling down the hall and assuring his mother that; "I'm coming, Mum!" Christophe was left to his own devices in the bedroom. Gregory turned the corner and smiled up at his mother, who beamed down at him. Ms. Delorne looked a little preoccupied over on the sofa, in the living room.

"Gregory, dear, did you show Christophe your room?"

"Yes, Mum. I think he likes it."

"Good. Take him around and show him the rest of the house real quick for me, and then bring him in here…Ms. Delorne and I have a few things to discuss with you boys."

Gregory blinked. "…Okay, Mum."

He turned on his heel and teetered back to his bedroom, calling for Christophe as he went. He stumbled through the doorway, glanced the room over quickly, and saw that the little Frenchman was nowhere to be found. He blinked, confused, and looked behind the door, then under his bed, then in his play area. He saw that Christophe had taken the black crayon, for reasons unbeknownst to Gregory, and had used it down to the labeling paper on Gregory's cartoon Christophe. What had once been a happy representation of the brunette was now a pudgy ball of clothes with an angry, black scribble for a face.

Gregory touched the smooth surface of the black wax for a second before remembering what he had been enlisted to do, and then he turned around and headed back into the hallway, calling Christophe's name again. He heard a grunt coming from the room to his left; the bathroom.

"E'scuze me, I am _peeing!_" Christophe growled haughtily, and the sounds echoing forth from behind the door let Gregory know that the French boy was telling the truth. The blonde boy sighed and sat patiently beside the door, waiting for Christophe to come out. Apparently, Christophe thought that Gregory had left, because shortly afterward, he began singing "Old McDonald", and Gregory had to bite his lip to keep from giggling. When Christophe came to; "with a quack quack here, and a quack quack there", instead, to Gregory's surprise, he growled; "with a _bang, bang_ 'ear, and a _pow, pow_ zer, shoot zem up, fucking ducks, I fucking 'ate ducks, kill zem you stupeed farmer…"

Gregory put his hands over his mouth and waited silently for Christophe to step out of the bathroom. He heard the French boy wash his hands and flush the toilet, and then the door opened, yielding the newly-relieved brunette. Christophe let out a little sound of shock when he saw that Gregory was sitting right beside the doorway, waiting for him. His face flushed when he realized that Gregory must have heard him singing, and he looked about ready to smack his friend before he thought again and decided against it. Instead, he stormed past the curly-haired blonde and headed back for the bedroom. Gregory scrambled to his feet and ran after him.

"Mum says…come to the living room if you don't want to see the rest of the house, Christophe," he chirped. Christophe shivered again.

"…I do not want to look at anyone. Leave me _alone._"

He slammed the door to the bedroom shut behind himself and, cleverly, locked it. Gregory stared at his own door in bewilderment, unsure what to do. What was _wrong_ with Christophe? Gregory had never seen someone so bitter before in his life. Shrugging, he touched the door and found it suitable to mumble; "if you get hungry…we have food in the kitchen," before turning around and skipping once again back down the hallway. He walked in on his mother and Ms. Delorne laughing about something. They smiled at him when they noticed he had joined them.

"Oh, but where's Christophe, sweetie?" Mrs. Thorne asked, looking behind her son. "Is he in the bathroom?"

"No, he just got out…he said he doesn't want to look at anybody, and to leave him alone," Gregory reported, stretching. "He's hiding in my room, Mum. Why's he so grouchy?"

"…_Christophe, tu me tues_ _avec votre stupidité_," Ms. Delorne murmured, shaking her head. She put her face in her palms and sighed heavily, and Gregory cocked his eyebrows at the startled look his mother gave the Frenchwoman. What had she said about Christophe, he wondered? He scratched his rear and blinked at his mother, half-smiling.

"…So what did you want to tell us, Mum? I cun tell Christophe later…"

"Oh…" Katherine said, still looking quite disturbed by whatever Nicole had said. "I…it's nothing, honey, don't you worry about it. I'll tell you…some other time…for now, just…go and see if you can get Christophe to come out of your room. He needs a bath."

Gregory deflated. He had been expecting some sort of surprise, and bath time was certainly _not_ very surprising, nor was it a very good thing, in his opinion. Dragging his feet, he wandered glumly back down the hall for the third time in half an hour, stopping at his bedroom door and preparing to call Christophe again. But he hesitated, because he heard a very familiar sound leaking out from between the cracks around the door.

It was the kind of sound that one does not enjoy hearing at all, unless one is an evildoer of some sort, which Gregory most certainly was not. It was as soft and strangled as the whines of a month-old puppy with a broken leg; the kind of sound that could break your heart in an instant. Gregory leaned closer to the door, wondering if he was hearing incorrectly, but once he pressed his ear into the wooden barrier, there was no mistaking it.

Christophe was sobbing.

Gregory reached up and found, to his surprise, that the door was now unlocked. He stepped in without asking first (after all, it was _his_ room) and looked around the dark vicinity, being sure to move quietly so as not to disturb his friend. He found the French boy huddled in his play corner, surrounded by stuffed animals and hiding his face in the receiving arms of a very large stuffed kangaroo. Gregory watched him for a second, almost frozen in place, mesmerized by the way the brunette's shoulders trembled softly as he wept. It didn't dawn upon Gregory that he had never seen another child actually _cry_ before, because not even _he_ had ever actually cried. Everything that he had ever done had been a call for attention, or a Band-Aid, or food. Gregory didn't realize it, but Christophe was crying because he was truly, deeply sad…and being so young, the blonde had little to no understanding of what sadness really was.

And he wouldn't grasp it completely until a good ten years later.

But for now, he was granted mobility again when Christophe choked out his name; he responded to the call and swept down gently beside the brunette, who turned away from the kangaroo and hugged his five-year-old friend, instead. Gregory fell back into the pile of Beanie Babies he had pushed to the floor earlier, and hugged Christophe back, not comprehending precisely what was happening but realizing that Christophe was crying, so he needed to be hugged. Hugs made the tears stop, as Gregory had learned at a very young age, and kisses often helped as well. So he kissed Christophe's face tenderly and held the little boy's shaking body against his own, whispering soft reassurances that _it'll be all right, _and _don't worry, _and _Mum is making pancakes for dinner._

Christophe stopped sobbing, but his tears continued to make spots on Gregory's shoulder, his quivering lips pressing into the blonde's arm and his flushed cheeks into Gregory's shirt. He tilted his head to the right and looked up into his friend's smiling face, wiping tears from his eyes before asking; "…Where eez _y-your_ fazur…?"

There was a good minute of silence on Gregory's part before he looked back down into Christophe's deep, green eyes. "…My Dad is…dead," he said quietly, and Christophe's eyes widened further. "…He got sick and died when…I was three."

Christophe coughed feebly, his tiny fingers grasping at Gregory's blue tee shirt, asking for comfort, and it suddenly struck Gregory that it was possible that Christophe was crying because he missed his father. The French boy sniffed. "…Do you r-recall anysing about 'im…?"

Gregory stroked Christophe's hair and patted his back, thinking hard for a minute. "…Not a lot…but Mum says he was really nice to me, and that he loved us an awful lot…sometimes I cun remember what he looked like in my dreams, but it's hard because we don't have any pictures…he was big, though. Real big. And strong and smart, too…at least…until the last few months or so." Gregory sighed. "I wish he would've lived…so I could've got to know him better."

Gregory had seen the American boys playing catch with their fathers in the parks enough times to yearn for his own dad; to see his smiling face, laughing as his son caught the ball and threw it skillfully back to him. Gregory hated the sickness and what it had taken from him, and he hugged Christophe into himself, upset just thinking about it. Christophe pushed against the Beanie Babies and pulled away for a moment, looking Gregory in the face as if he had just realized something.

"…Y-you…" he murmured, his eyebrows lowering a little. The white parts of his eyes were pink and bloodshot from his salty tears. "…You _keesed_ me…"

There was a brief, awkward silence between them.

"…S-so…so what? You kissed me, too," Gregory accused him, sticking out his lower lip. "You kissed my head earlier, remember?"

Christophe considered this, sniffing the tears away, and then he scowled down at Gregory, his cheeks pink from shyness now instead of sadness. "…Don't _kees_ me, Gregory. Eet eez _gross._"

"Well then why'd _you_ do it?" Gregory demanded, puckering his lips and making a face at the brunette. Christophe's eyes teared up again and he buried his face in Gregory's chest, sobbing roughly. Gregory blinked, unsure. Christophe was confusing him a lot.

"_Ma mère ne m'aime pas...elle ne se soucie pas..._" Christophe choked, his chest rising and falling in a strange pattern against Gregory's belly. And though Gregory had no clue what that meant, he had a feeling that it wasn't anything good. He hugged Christophe gently and tried to calm him down, not knowing that a few years later, it would be the other way around, and he would be asking himself the same thing that Christophe was asking himself now:

_...Why do I trust this boy?_

* * *

Bath time was not something that Gregory generally enjoyed; getting oneself clean was not at all a riveting process, he felt, even if it _was_ the only time that he could play with foamy water and not get in trouble. He didn't really like getting wet; it made his hair feel weird, and when it was drying, the cold water often dripped onto his back; a feeling that he detested. So, as per usual, he protested his nighttime bath, even though his mother had made him pancakes for dinner, as she had promised. She tried to use this against him, but it didn't work; Gregory refused to get into the tub, and he was going to stay out at all costs. 

Christophe, as soon as he heard his mother tell him it was time to wash, followed her soundlessly into the bathroom and got undressed, and within a minute's time, Gregory (who was huddled behind the potted azalea) heard the sounds of a bath echoing out from the bathroom. He scowled, irritated with Christophe for conforming and doing as his mother told him. Now Mrs. Thorne would surely use this against her own son.

"Do you hear that, Gregory? _Christophe_ got into the bath."

"But he's _dirty_ and…and he _needs_ one! I am _not_ dirty!"

"Yes you are, you're a smelly little boy," his mother declared, leaning over the barrier and grabbing her son around the waist. She lifted him up and carried him quickly to the bathroom; he kicked and shrieked the whole way, and earned himself a look from Christophe and a sigh from Ms. Delorne when he started growling about the stupidity of bathing. His mother promptly undressed him and set him in the tub beside Christophe, who looked over at him with a scowl on his face. Foam dripped from his shaggy hair.

"Eet eez better to just do as zey tell you," he preached as his mother scrubbed his back with a washcloth. "Eet eez over with much faster zat way."

"And that goes for _everything_, Gregory," Katherine agreed, squeezing baby shampoo into her son's hair. Gregory pouted while she washed his hair, glaring down at the pillars of soap while Christophe watched him with a bit of a curious eye. Gregory scowled back at him in response, grabbing one of his rubber bath toys and throwing it at the French boy. It hit him squarely in the chest. Christophe gave him a sour look and splashed soap-water in his face.

"Boys! Stop it," Mrs. Thorne demanded, gingerly helping her shocked son get soap out of his eyes.

Ms. Delorne pulled a lock of Christophe's hair out of his face. She sighed. "_Katherine…il a besoin d'un coupe des cheveux…do tu avez n'importe quels ciseaux?_"

"_Oui._"

"_Je devrai le faire après nous sommes finis ici_ _…_"

"Muzar, I don't _want_ a 'aircut," Christophe murmured, scratching his neck. Then, remembering that his mother probably couldn't tell what he meant, repeated in French: "_Je ne veux pas celui._" His mother released his hair and gently began washing his feet, cocking her eyebrows at him.

"_Tant pis, Christophe, tu ressemblez à un chien_," she replied in a final sort of tone. Gregory watched Christophe lower his head with a bit of a spiteful eye, wondering if Christophe ever stood up to his mother…and if, when he did, he ever managed to do so without getting a smack in the face. "_Je n'aurai pas de chien pour un fils._"

Gregory was surprised to hear Christophe let out a soft chuckle a few seconds later. "_Woof_," he said, baring his baby teeth in a full-fledged grin. Gregory couldn't help but giggle a little, and Mrs. Thorne laughed, as well. Ms. Delorne, however, did not find her son's antics amusing. She hit him on the back of the head with a wet, slapping sound, and Gregory felt his mother flinch before she turned away. Nicole hissed something in French to her son that Gregory couldn't catch, and Christophe nodded, all traces of his silly little boy's grin gone from his face.

"_...Oui, _Muzar" he murmured, shame evident on his face. Gregory's little heart was beating fast in his chest, and he saw his own mother lean over to speak softly to Nicole. He knew he wasn't supposed to hear what was said, but he heard it, anyway.

"…Nicole…will you please…not do that…at least not around Gregory?"

The Frenchwoman glanced over at the British woman, confusion evident on her face. "Hmm?" she asked, looking truly baffled. Gregory pretended to be interested in what Christophe was doing, even though the brunette was doing absolutely nothing of interest. He didn't look at Christophe's face. If he had, he would have seen that the boy was biting his lip hard to keep something in.

Mrs. Thorne raised her eyebrows. "_Ne frappez pas s'il vous plaît votre fils_," she begged, her voice barely above a whisper. "_Il fait peur à Gregory_."

Ms. Delorne looked back at her blandly for a few seconds before she nodded solemnly and glanced down at her wet knees. "Oh…_oui_…of course…" she murmured, awkwardly going back to bathing Christophe. Gregory watched her thin, bony hands as she scrubbed at her son's sickly yellow skin, and he wondered if Christophe had ever had a proper bath before in his life. His skin looked raw and pink underneath the layer of yellow buildup that seemed to encase all of his body. When Gregory finally looked up into his friend's eyes, he thought they looked dull, as if his mother's last smack had knocked some of the life out of him. He looked down at his hands and said nothing for a long while after that.

Eventually, though, he had to say _something_. Alone in his bedroom with the young, French brunette, who was lying on a cot at the foot of Gregory's bed with a fresh haircut and skin still pink from the soap, he sighed loudly enough to let Christophe know that he was still up. The other boy sighed in response, and Gregory sat up in the dark. He felt a little sick to his stomach.

"…Christophe?" he whispered, earning himself a little quiver of bed sheets on the French boy's part. "…Christophe, please tell me…why does your mum hit you like she does…?"

Silence from the foot of the bed. The gentle sounds of one of their mothers clearing her throat somewhere down the hall; the heater running softly and sending warm air through the ventilation system opening in the far corner of the room. The sheets rustled again, and Gregory furrowed his eyebrows, climbing over his blankets and gripping the railing at the foot of the bed. The back of Christophe's less-furry head glared back at the British boy, as foreboding as the "sounds" that often kept Gregory awake late at night, echoing out from beneath his bed. Gregory shuddered, but stayed still.

"…Please answer me…"

"Gregory…" Christophe breathed, curling himself up into an even tighter ball. Gregory leaned his chin against the railing, examining his friend. His body was very, very skinny. Gregory remembered that he could see Christophe's ribs when they had been naked in the bathtub, and he had the faint idea that people who lived on the streets didn't always have enough food to eat. He remembered the way that Christophe had used very little syrup on his pancakes, as if the sweet taste made him feel sick, because he wasn't used to it. He wondered how long Ms. Delorne had been saving money to get the two of them to America.

Gregory reached between the bars of the railing and touched Christophe's shoulder. The boy started and looked over his shoulder with hard, angry eyes, quite obviously expressing that _I wish to be left alone._ "…_Please_, Christophe…I hafta know…" Gregory murmured, a soft, five-year-old's urgency in his voice. "…It…like my mum says…it's scary…mums shouldn't hit their kids…"

Christophe rolled over again, hiding his face in his pillow. Gregory's hand slid down Christophe's torso, and he felt the ribs through the brunette's borrowed nightshirt. A soft, unrecognizable sound leaked out from the boy's front, and Gregory pulled his hand away, gripping the guardrail again. "…Leave me alone…" Christophe sighed. "Eet eez none of your concern…"

His teeth clicked as he closed them, as if doing so would assuage Gregory's worries, at least until the following morning. Gregory felt something pulling at him, as if some part of him knew that he should listen to what Christophe said. He chose to listen to that small part of himself and backed off, if not a bit reluctantly, squirming back over his sheets until he felt the coolness of his pillow pressing into his face again. He could see the moonlight filtering in through the window; pale grayish-blue and beautiful. He lay on his side and stared at it for a few minutes, feeling a fog start to overcome his brain. It had been a long day. He closed his eyes with the image of a small boy standing in the moonlight in his line of sight, pulling at the bottom of his shirt with a pained expression on his face.

A few slow seconds later, Gregory felt his bed sagging with added weight, but he kept his eyes closed, even when he felt Christophe sliding under the sheets beside him. He held the hand that slipped into his own without protest; let the brunette's head lean against his chest. He sighed and listened to Christophe's breathing; faltering, unsure, strained, and he felt the little fingers clench tighter around his own when Ms. Delorne walked by outside, muttering something to herself in French. Christophe's hands were smooth and warm, still fresh from the bath, and he pulled Gregory's hands into his face, pressing them into his cheeks. Gregory's eyes opened when he felt tears beneath his fingertips, and a few moments of silence passed before the blonde closed his eyes again, not understanding and wishing that he did.

Within minutes, they were both sound asleep.


	3. Little Green Men

And that's…the story of how Gregory and Christophe first met. :3 These two are so damn cute…

Okay. I am horribly aware of how shitty my French is. The reason being: I DON'T SPEAK FRENCH. I've been using this online translator thing that...eh...apparently isn't very reliable. So I'm sorry. I'll try and use as little French as possible from now on, in order to keep you fluent people from suffering :P

* * *

**Chapter Three**

The days seemed to come and go at the speed of light in the Thorne-Delorne household, the trials and tribulations of everyday life adding flavor to the otherwise bland soup of their existences. Gregory and Christophe, though they didn't act very close, became very fast and very dear friends; in the brief moments during which they were alone, they would talk, though usually very little. The French boy told the British boy about the lack of caring in his life; how he could never remember a time when his mother had kissed him or told him that she loved him. For this reason, Christophe would often be close to Gregory, asking for the affection that his mother so ruthlessly deprived him of, and Gregory would give it to him without question. He would get up to kiss Christophe's cheek after his mother closed the door at night; hold his hand while they were sitting in the backseat of the car in the middle of traffic; stay up late and whisper happy stories about magic and rainbows and knights in shining armor to him until they both fell asleep. That was all that was necessary. Gregory taught Christophe how to draw, and Christophe taught Gregory how to take someone else's feelings into account, no matter how skewed and vague the feelings were. Christophe never said exactly what was wrong with him, or what anyone could do to make it better, but even on the nights when he started crying silently and crawled into bed with Gregory, the blonde knew that he was helping his poor friend by simply being there.

Christophe was sick, and his mother wasn't there to give him the care that he needed. She never would be.

Ms. Delorne watched the boys during the day while Mrs. Thorne went to work. She was an English teacher at a small private school, and though she loved what she did, she wanted to find a better school to work at. The children in her current school had almost no ambition to work toward good grades; she wanted a school where the children would yearn for knowledge and participate in class, as if they wanted to make something of themselves someday. So in her spare time, she searched for a new job, at a school with some prestige and promise in its background.

And the following July, just a little over a month before Gregory and Christophe were to start school, the Thornes and the Delornes moved to a small cabin in the middle of nowhere. Up in the mountains in northern Colorado, Katherine Thorne started teaching at the Yardale Private school, where children paid attention and made attempts to learn. She signed Gregory up to start classes there in the fall, and suggested that Nicole do the same for Christophe, but the Frenchwoman turned down the suggestion. She wanted to teach Christophe at home, she said. Gregory knew that she just wanted to have her son as close to her as possible, to keep him from drifting too far away from her and rebelling. But he said nothing about it, even after Christophe stopped climbing into bed with him, and he could hear the brunette whimpering pleas of denial to himself from his cot as he fell asleep.

"...Y-you can't go...I n-need you..."

The days in the mountains became longer and longer; each one was as cold as the winter days in New York had been, and Gregory didn't like the lack of seasons very much, at first. As the summer dragged on, Christophe grew more and more reclusive and distant toward Gregory, and there was a short period of time that lasted about two weeks when the two of them didn't say anything at all to one another, though they often exchanged glances, to acknowledge that each still appreciated the other's presence whenever something upsetting occurred. Gregory felt sick during most of that time. He would often find drawings of Christophe's; drawings of a woman with brown hair, lying in a pool of scribbled red blood. He went to great lengths to keep the pictures from being discovered by both his mother and Ms. Delorne. Any of his own drawings that included Christophe would be found with angry black marks on them if they were left unsupervised for more than five minutes at a time. Gregory hid his drawings for a few days, and eventually, he just stopped drawing altogether. Christophe broke all of Gregory's crayons in half a few days after that, and Gregory buried them all outside in the snow, along with his friend's drawings.

One early September day, Gregory went outside and started to build a snowman. Christophe came outside when he was almost finished and helped the blonde decorate the snowman with a hat and a scarf, and when Gregory looked him in the face, Christophe smiled. Gregory smiled back. Then Christophe leaned forward and pressed his lips softly into Gregory's, pulling quickly away once he had achieved his goal and staring down at his snow-covered knees without a hint of blush on his face. Gregory blinked at him, confused, and the brunette got to his feet and walked quickly back into the house, without a single word. Two days later, Gregory started school, and Christophe was alone at the house with his mother all day long.

Gregory quickly decided that he liked going to school. The children were nice, and the teachers were nicer. First grade was fun because it was basic and easy, and Gregory excelled with almost no effort because he already knew most of the material. His teachers liked him, and his classmates liked him, too. He easily rose to the top of the social ladder.

Although he enjoyed school, Gregory liked going home better, because being at home meant spending time with Christophe, who, by the time Gregory returned, often looked as though he desperately needed to be talked to. After Gregory's first full week of school, it became obvious to the blonde that his leaving every morning was having a negative effect on his brunette friend. He tried to convince the French boy's mother that Christophe needed to go to school, as well, but Ms. Delorne refused to relent. "'E will learn more eef 'e eez 'ear with me," she always declared. But Gregory highly doubted it.

Christophe had his sixth birthday in mid-September; only two weeks after Gregory began school. Mrs. Thorne gave him a bucket of plastic soldiers and baked him a chocolate cake, which he ate too much of and wound up vomiting into the toilet at three the next morning. He ran to his mother once he had finished and told her what had happened, and she told him that it was his own fault, and to go back to bed. Christophe washed his face off in the sink and said nothing to Gregory, who had been woken up by the toilet flush, once he came back to the bedroom. When they woke up later, Christophe was thrilled to find that it was Saturday, so he and Gregory played with the plastic soldiers all day long. Gregory said nothing about what had happened earlier that morning, and Christophe quickly forgot about it, entranced by their play-battles.

Gregory's birthday came a month and a few days later, in late October; nearly a year's anniversary of their meeting and coming together as a "family". Gregory received a set of Tinker Toys and had carrot cake for his birthday, which Christophe refused to eat any of. They built military bases for Christophe's soldiers out of the Tinker Toys, and Christophe started to smile a lot more often. Gregory was happy for that reason. Christophe seemed happy whenever he was involved in some kind of military reenactment, so Gregory played with him often, and they started to just leave the pieces out whenever they had to go out somewhere, and resume playing when they came back. What had started off as a one-day battle became a never-ending war, for Christophe's sake. Ms. Delorne was forced to vacuum around the pieces, and more than once she accidentally took up one of the little green men. These soldiers, when discovered, were immediately sent to intensive care (which consisted of a tent made of Tinker Toys with several tissues slung overtop of it, in which the soldiers would be wrapped in duct tape to cover their wounds). There were several soldiers who never left intensive care, such as the one that somehow wound up in the dishwasher one day and was horribly melted and warped by the heat, and the one whose arm Gregory cut off with Ms. Delorne's coupon scissors, proving to Christophe that you _can_, in fact, cut through plastic, if only you try hard enough. But these handicapped men only made the war more realistic, and for that reason, Gregory and Christophe never complained when they discovered that one of their soldiers had been chewed up by a dog, or run over by a car, or left out in the snow for so long that it had somehow managed to turn blue.

So the battles raged onward through the year, and made the days speed by; soon, Gregory had finished the first grade, and it was summer again. Christophe and Nicole both had learned much more English, and Ms. Delorne had gotten an evening job waiting tables at the TGI Friday's down in town. Christophe seemed a lot happier when his mother wasn't around, Gregory noticed, and this made him feel weird inside, like there was something wrong with it. Kids were supposed to _like_ having their mothers around, he had thought. But apparently, because Christophe was different, he didn't _have_ to like her. So he didn't.

Summer was better in Gregory's eyes because it gave him time to spend with Christophe; time to be close to him and to keep him happy. He could make Christophe laugh during the summer, when they were alone; this soft, smooth laugh that made Gregory's heart flutter for a reason he didn't understand, and the French boy would wrap his arms around him and hug him while he laughed. They would laugh together, and it made Gregory feel that, maybe, for those brief moments, everything was okay. Maybe Christophe was happy when he was laughing. Gregory hoped so.

They built a snowman together once they sensed that fall was coming again, and they smiled at each other like before, but there was no kiss from Christophe before the second grade. For some reason, this made telling time and adding three-digit numbers seem difficult to Gregory, as if Christophe's kiss last year had reassured him subliminally that things would be all right for him. He felt strangely alone at night, with no one there to hold his hand while he fell asleep, and he wished that Christophe would come back to him. It hadn't bothered him last year, but there was something about it that hurt him, now. Like something was…_missing._

On a day just a week before Christophe's seventh birthday, when they were playing War, Gregory recalled that empty feeling, and for a moment he just sat there while Christophe made sound effects for his soldiers and hissed angry war cries. The brunette noticed after a few seconds that his targets weren't screaming and being blown to imaginary bits, and he stopped, looking up at Gregory with confusion apparent in his face. Gregory looked back, blankly for a moment, and then he lowered his eyebrows.

"…Christophe?" he asked slowly; the words were new to him, as well. He barely understood what he wanted to ask. "…Do you…love anybody?"

Christophe's eyes flashed for a second with thought, and for a moment, he looked as if he wanted to turn away, but he didn't. He looked at Gregory, long and hard, and he breathed out through his nose. "…I love _you_, Gregory," he finally said, his voice monotonous and nonchalant. He blinked and let Gregory calculate his answer, and the blonde smiled. Christophe smiled back. A minute later, the room was livened by the sounds of War again, and Gregory didn't feel so empty anymore.

That night, lying in bed, he considered the possibility that maybe _that_ had been all that he was lacking; knowing that Christophe cared for him. It seemed entirely probable. After all, last year, the kiss had made him feel somehow _closer_ to the French boy. Being close to him was a big deal, to Gregory, because more often than not, Christophe pushed everyone away and refused to be a part of anyone's life. Christophe had finally accepted Gregory as being worthwhile, and that in itself was a wonderful gift in the young Brit's eyes; he didn't know what he would have done if Christophe had actually ended up eternally hating him as much as he had seemed to when they had first met. He fell asleep thinking about that and trying to comprehend the strange feelings that he got when he imagined Christophe hating him.

When he woke up a few hours later, it was still dark outside, and he could feel the steady rise and fall of sleeping Christophe's chest, pressed gently into the folds of his pajamas. He could smell the gentle, innocent fragrance of the French boy's hair beneath his nose, and he could feel skinny arms wrapped around his body, trembling a little as Christophe dreamed. After a moment's contemplation, Gregory kissed Christophe's head once and whispered, in secret response to the boy's statement earlier; "…I love you, too…" before he closed his eyes—his cheeks pink for a reason ever known only to him and Christophe—and went back to sleep.

That was the first—and one of the only—secrets that the two boys ever shared with one another. The secret of love.

It was the one that Gregory would always treasure most of all.

…Turning seven was a big deal for Christophe. Though he simply would not eat a single bite of the strawberry cake that Mrs. Thorne baked him (from memories of last year's vomit, yes, but mostly because the cake itself was a violent shade of pink, and Christophe rather detested the feminine color), his mood was quickly brightened by the advent of presents. A deluxe radio-controlled camouflage army tank, complete with real-working missile launcher strapped to the back and all-terrain abilities was to be his pride and joy for years to come, shared only with Gregory and their little green men. It was the bane of Ms. Delorne's existence all throughout the boys' second-grade year, approaching her on her afternoons off of work while she sat in the kitchen and sipped coffee, firing little plastic missiles at her legs while the boys giggled and snickered down the hall, watching her irritated expression with great fondness. One day she grew overly exasperated with the damn thing and actually kicked it away from her, over onto its back, sending the six army men seated within it flying, and she heard Gregory squeal with delight as Christophe crooned something about "ze enemy eez retaliating! Send in ze reinforcements, General Zorne!"

It never occurred to anyone that Christophe's play-war with his mother would, over the years, blossom into something much more sinister and heart-wrenching.

Gregory's seventh was equally amusing to the boys, and proved to be equally annoying to Ms. Delorne in the weeks that followed. The blonde had been given a G.I. Joe action figure, which immediately became the detestable villain in the boys' war games. The Frenchwoman did not find it amusing, however, to discover the doll in nastily surprising places around the house whenever she was attempting to relax; in her favorite couch cushion, in the garbage disposal, in the toilet. She lost her temper when she found it in her lingerie drawer, dirty and tearing holes in her dainties with its sharp, mangled plastic body, and she saw her son and his Brit friend standing sheepishly at the door, grinning stupidly as little boys do. "'E eez a 'orny, bad man," Christophe said simply, as if that explained everything in the world. Gregory snorted with laughter. At dinner that evening, Mrs. Thorne looked on with a worried expression as Gregory sat staring at his food with puffy, red eyes, and Christophe ate like a zombie, his neck nicely bruised by the imprints of ten thin fingers. G.I. Joe managed to avoid Ms. Delorne from that moment onward, though the tank still paid her occasional visits. It was becoming dented from all of her kicks, but neither of the boys really cared at all.

Their first celebrated Halloween together (the previous year's having been too inconvenient, what with the language barrier and the lack of serious friendship between Gregory and Christophe at the time) proved to be quite interesting for everyone who lived within a twenty-mile radius of their cabin. Mrs. Thorne had helped the boys dress up; Gregory posed as a wizard, and Christophe went, quite miserably at first, as a werewolf, clad in a full-body suit of brown fur, sideburns, and fake plastic teeth. Gregory's occasional giggles seemed to soothe Christophe's distaste for the holiday once they were out of the house and trekking down the dark street, bathed in the guiding light of Mrs. Thorne's flashlight. Somehow, though, after the first few houses, the boys had managed to wander off. In truth, Christophe had gotten bored, and—seeing the older kids from down in town scaring the littler kids—had decided to play a trick of his own on Gregory's mother. Gregory had agreed and followed his friend deep into the woods.

They had quickly lost themselves. Mrs. Thorne panicked and there were quickly police and neighbors searching all over for the two boys, who hid from the flashlights inside of rotting, snow-covered logs at Christophe's insistence that the Nazis were coming for them. Frightened and cold, they had been found hiding in a crudely-made igloo five hours later, a wet, sleeping Gregory curled, trembling, against Christophe's furry body suit, with the makeshift werewolf's paws wrapped protectively around his only friend and his eyes glinting like the Devil's own. It was revealed the next morning that Christophe (who said this all with a smug smile) had planned for them to get lost like that all along. The only side-effect of the boys' little adventure that the French boy hadn't anticipated was that Gregory got pneumonia and didn't go back to school until early December. Christophe got a stern "lecture" from his mother and wasn't able to sit down without either crying out in pain or flinching until about the same time that Gregory went back to school.

Christmas came and went with its presents and its caroling and its church sermons and food, and more nonsense for Ms. Delorne to deal with from her son's end of the house, courtesy of Mrs. Thorne. A new set of little green men, decals for the remote-controlled tank, and a set of real-working camouflage walkie-talkies, the latter of which irritated the Frenchwoman most of all. The boys would speak into the accursed things at the most inappropriate times; mainly when they were sitting right beside each other, like at the dinner table or in the backseat of the car, to say completely pointless things, such as:

"Christophe? Over."

"Yes, Gregory, what eez eet? Over."

"…Peas are gross. Over."

Mrs. Thorne laughed about it and found it all terribly adorable and amusing, though Christophe's mother found her dislike for her "family" growing more and more with each passing day. The walkie-talkies disappeared mysteriously in late January and were never seen again, much to Christophe's disappointment (he had only just discovered how to make a fascinating noise—very similar to that of a dying giraffe—with his throat that only triggered violent seizures of hysteria in Gregory if the poor blonde boy heard it through the walkie-talkie). Regardless of where the devices had disappeared to, Ms. Delorne did _not_ miss her son's giraffe noises in the least bit.

Christophe remedied the situation within a week by learning how to make realistic farting sounds by blowing into the joined heels of his hands, which reduced Gregory to joyful squeals nearly as well as the giraffe cries had. This new noise was much more offensive to the people around them, but it did create much fewer laughter-induced wetting accidents on Gregory's part, which, in turn, meant much less laundry for Mrs. Thorne. Valentine's Day, and Christophe came to breakfast at his mother's side with a darkening bruise on his cheek, muttering something about being sorry for his continuing rudeness. Gregory felt sick all day, looking at Christophe's bruise, and the chocolate they were given didn't help very much at all…in fact, it made things worse, if that were even a possible side-effect of chocolate.

He waited until they were alone in their room later that day, playing war, to attempt to do what he wanted to do. It was, after all, a day of love. Shouldn't Christophe be shown that same tenderness that Gregory had been bombarded with for almost every day of his life? Surely. Apparently, it was up to the Brit to fix things for his friend, however. So when they were alone; when they were lying on their stomachs, side-by-side, Christophe thoroughly involved in explaining an aerial assault about to be conducted by G.I. Joe and his followers; Gregory leaned over and pressed their lips together for one sweet, innocent moment.

Christophe was so shocked that he dropped his paper airplane right into the warpath. The two of them stared at each other for a good ten seconds after it was over, Christophe frozen tensely in place, Gregory smiling gently at his best friend, unafraid, unfettered, though a little shy, now; nervous about what he had done. "…Happy Valentine's Day, Christophe," he said softly, and began quietly setting up the soldiers for the airborne attack. French fingers found British after a short period of awkward silence, and both of them dutifully ignored the warmth in their faces as they continued their game, holding hands affectionately until Gregory's mother came to get them for lunch.

It was on that night that Christophe confessed to Gregory.

Gregory lie in his bed, awake, so awake, and he thought about Christophe as he often did while he curled his body beneath the sheets; how having the French boy's hand in his own after that gentle peck on the lips had somehow made him feel…_complete._ As if that little hand was _meant_ to be there inside of his own. His face flushed dimly and he rolled over, knowing that his mother and Christophe's were both sleeping soundly in their own rooms; he could hear the distant snoring of Ms. Delorne that always signaled that the coast was clear. Gregory smiled a private smile as he heard the familiar sound of feet padding over the carpeting; then the unmistakable creaking and grunting that told Gregory that Christophe was making his way over the guardrail. Seconds later there was a body pressing against Gregory's, and he rolled back over and let Christophe in as he always did, because Christophe needed it so desperately. The bruise on the French boy's face was sickening evidence enough of that.

…The moment Gregory felt the tears on Christophe's face, he knew that something was wrong. Confused, he let the little fingers close around the front of his nightshirt, shaking and scared, and Gregory simply held Christophe against him, not expecting him to say anything at all…but the Brit was quite nicely surprised. A sharp sniff met his ears, and then:

"…F-Fazur eez not bad…'e eez good…b-better zan Muzar…she ch-chased 'im off…p-pushed 'im away from me…t-took me 'ere against my will…." He sobbed emotionally into Gregory's shoulder; murmured something in French that the blonde didn't catch. "…I 'ate eet 'ear…I 'ate zees kuh-cold…I 'ate M-Muzar…I want m-muh-my Fazur…I…I want to _d-die_, G-Gregory, I want to _die…_"

Gregory buried his nose in Christophe's soft-smelling hair, his lips on the French ear, his breath drying the drops of liquid pain. Baffled, unsure, he still knew deep down that there was something terribly wrong about his seven-year-old friend wanting to die, so he pulled the brunette as close to him as he could, not knowing in the least how he could possibly help to remedy the situation.

"…Do you know where your Dad is, now?" he asked quietly, his voice slightly muffled by auburn hair. Christophe shook his head.

"…Ze l-last time I saw 'im…'e was r-running f-from my Muzar, b-bleeding. She…" he grimaced and sobbed, burying his eyes in the soft, yielding flesh of Gregory's young neck. "…She 'ad stuh-stabbed 'im…I d-don't even know…eef 'e eez ah-alive…eef 'e even l-lived to see z-ze next day…"

Gregory felt, for a split-second, some of the pain that he had felt upon realizing that his own father was never going to come back stabbing his heart as icily and terribly as it had so long ago. He saw tears clouding his eyes and he blinked them away, stroking Christophe's face with shaking fingertips and forcing confidence into his voice, for his friend's sake. "…Don't cry, Christophe…I…I'm sure your Dad is out there still, looking for you…longing to take you home…"

Christophe never acknowledged that what Gregory had said might be possible at all, but within a matter of minutes, the French boy had calmed down, and they fell asleep with their hands linked loosely together.

In the weeks and then months that followed, the boys tended to be more and more stiff and mechanical around Ms. Delorne; now that both of them knew the degree of her insanity, Gregory had pleaded with Christophe to leave her alone with the tank. He didn't want the brunette to get stabbed, and this fear of the Brit's penetrated Christophe's wall. He agreed to stop bothering his mother with his remote-controlled tank; though a bit grudgingly, at first. Even into the later days of springtime, Gregory continued to see Christophe coming to meals with fresh injuries on his body, and he still heard him sobbing himself to sleep sometimes. It scared Gregory, how Christophe could act so strong and unfeeling during the day, and then each night his barricades fell apart and he could do nothing at all to stop the tears. He hated how Christophe had to be like that, and wished there were something—_anything_—that he could do to help him stop putting up his walls, just so it wouldn't be so painful for him at night.

Two weeks before Gregory's second grade year was over, Ms. Delorne brought up a strange and remarkable idea of hers at dinner. She had been doing some research, she told Mrs. Thorne, on a summer boot camp for young boys. Katherine seemed uneasy and opened her mouth to protest at the words "boot camp", but Ms. Delorne quickly handed her a brochure she had apparently sent away for and explained to her that those words were just there to make fathers more interested in the idea. It was for boys aged seven to sixteen, and for thirty days out in the Nevada deserts, the boys would engage in a number of character-building activities appropriate for their ages. It was strict, Nicole said, but it was well worth it; their boys would come back well-behaved and respectful…two characteristics that they were both rather desperately lacking, in her eyes. Still Katherine was hesitant. She wasn't sure, she said; Gregory had never been away from her for longer than a day at a time. How would he survive an entire month out in the wilderness without her was beyond her, she said.

"'E will be vith Christophe!" Nicole said, trying to be soothing. "Eet eez only two 'undred dollars, Katherine…zat will pay for 'is lodging, 'is food, 'is uniform, ze transportation from 'ear to zer…everysing zat zey will need will be provided, and ze two of us will get a month of relaxation out of eet, too." Gregory and Christophe exchanged several unsure looks during this discussion, and a few nights after Nicole had first mentioned it, Christophe climbed into bed with Gregory and sat, staring at him, until he sat up, as well.

"…I 'ave 'erd our muzars talking about sending us away again," he whispered, and Gregory felt his stomach knot uncomfortably. He, like his mother, didn't know how in all of creation he would be able to last a month without her. "…Your muzar seems very keen to ze idea, now. My muzar eez good at convincing people of zeese sings…"

"I don't want to go, Christophe," Gregory said; it was supposed to sound angry, but it came out as more of a cracked whimper of a statement. "I don't want to be all alone with strange people out in the desert. I would be too…afraid."

Christophe stared at him, his hair dangling in his face, his eyes huge and green and beautiful in the distant moonlight. Gregory stared back, his shoulders shaking a little even though nothing was final, yet. Then Christophe smiled, and the blonde felt oddly strong hands on his shoulders, squeezing in a comforting way.

"…Even eef we were sent avay, Gregory…we would still 'ave each ozar," Christophe murmured kindly, and the smooth words were soothing and warm to Gregory, who managed to smile shortly after hearing them. "And being togezar would not be so bad at all, would eet?"

"No, it wouldn't," Gregory agreed, something tight in his chest as he took in the way Christophe smiled so fondly at him. Had it really been only two and a half years ago that he had not known this wonderful boy at all…? "It would be…quite nice, as long as we were with each other."

"So zen do not worry, Gregory," Christophe sighed, sliding his hands over Gregory's arms and squeezing his fingers reassuringly. "Eef we are forced to go…I will look out for you. _Je promets, mon chéri._ I promise, my darling."

For some reason, that was comfort enough for Gregory. Three days later when their mothers described the camp to them and mailed in the checks and letters for their entry, Gregory was able to smile and nod interestedly throughout most of the conversation. And a month later, just after the fourth of July, when Gregory found himself sitting beside Christophe on a big yellow school bus and waving out the window to his weeping mother and a statue-stiff Ms. Delorne (who had a rather nasty smirk on her face), he was nearly able to convince himself that he _would_ be all right, so long as Christophe was there beside him. He would survive. Both of them would rough it together. This would be fun.

_This would be FUN._

…Four minutes later, as the bus rolled down the asphalt road, he started crying, and his only consolation lie in Christophe's softly shaking fingers and the pungent stench of car exhaust.


	4. First Year Bitches

What's this? Encounters with a pedophile, a pear-shaped woman, and a horrible, horrible theme song? And this is only day one of ten years of torture yet to come! Well…in reality, it's only ten _months_…but, you know what I mean.

FRUITY MONSTER, FRUITY FRUITY MONSTER. :D

* * *

**Chapter Four**

Gregory must have dozed off, because the next thing he knew, he was being awoken by a sharp jab in his forehead. His eyes shot open. He knew that hand. He gave Christophe a sour look and rubbed between his eyes, hurt. "Why'd you do that?" he demanded. Christophe banged his fist against his own shoulder a few times, where Gregory's face had been pressed until a few seconds ago. There was a little dark spot on his sleeve where drool had dribbled out of the blonde's mouth.

"My arm was asleep," he murmured casually, flashing a grin at Gregory. The Brit blushed faintly and stole a glance out the window; he was shocked to no longer see the snow-filled countryside, but instead a vast expanse of sunbathed buildings and highways and cars. He pressed his face into the glass and stared, his heart leaping. It was a very exciting sight; he hadn't ever seen anything quite like it, even before, when they had lived in New York. He chanced a smile at the outside world before turning back around to face Christophe. The brunette looked rather tired, himself, and Gregory wondered if Christophe had sacrificed a nap in order to protect _him_ from the strange people riding with them on the bus. Something bubbled in his stomach, and he smiled.

"…How long have we been driving?" Gregory asked, not really expecting his friend to know the answer. Christophe shrugged.

"I don't know. Around five 'ours?" he suggested, scratching his arm. "One of ze grown-ups from ze front of ze bus was talking earlier…'e said somesing about all of our luggage being returned to us at ze end of ze term, and uniforms being provided to us upon our arrival or some bullsheet like zat…"

Gregory rubbed his eyes and yawned, forcing the sleep out of his body. He suddenly began to notice the other boys around them that he hadn't taken the time to notice earlier; there were boys of all ages. The youngest appeared to be around his and Christophe's age, and the oldest looked as if they must be in high school. The blonde felt slightly sheepish as he looked around at the older boys, who pointed to him when they realized what he was doing and snickered rudely at him. Christophe peeked over the back of the seat as well, suspicious of the laughter, but that only triggered more guffaws from the high-schoolers.

"…First-year bitches," a dark-skinned boy muttered to his friend. "Same as always, right? Little pussies." His friend laughed and shook his head mockingly at the European natives; Christophe scowled at them and flashed his middle finger at the older boys. They quickly stopped laughing and flashed their fingers back. Christophe pulled Gregory back into their seat haughtily, his eyes narrow and full of loathing.

"…What does that finger thing mean?" Gregory asked gently, making sure to look directly into the French boy's face. Christophe snorted.

"Do you remember when I said 'fuck you' to you back when we were five?" he queried; Gregory nodded carefully. "Well, eet means zat. Fuck you. Basically…eh…'ow you say…go shove somesing up your arse, because you are a lousy piece of sheet."

The blonde blinked, unsure. "Sheet?" he asked, confused.

"No, no; _sheet._ You know…crap? Pooh? _Sheet!_"

"_Ohhh_," Gregory said, his face flushing. He cracked a smile and laughed affectionately at his French friend. "You mean _shit._"

Christophe gave him an irritated and baffled look. "Yes, yes, zat eez what I said. Where were you when I spoke last? Stupeed." He slugged Gregory's shoulder playfully, and the blonde giggled again.

"What the hell's wrong with that kid's voice?" a strange boy asked, peering over the back of his own seat; directly in front of Gregory and Christophe. His hair hung in his face in shaggy black curls, and he looked around two years or so older than they were. "Is he some kind of immigrant or something?"

Gregory shared Christophe's sudden urge to hit this rude boy, but managed to restrain both of them. "Yeah…he's French," the blonde replied quietly. The boy in front of them blinked accusingly, then laughed.

"Haha! French pussy boy first-year bitch!" he scoffed. Gregory scowled up at the stranger and saw Christophe's face redden in rage beside him.

"Shut up and leave us alone," the Brit demanded protectively, and Christophe threw in a few choice French swear words. The third-year snickered and shook his head, sliding back down into his seat with a; "_whatever._" Christophe spat; it stuck to the back of the boy's seat. Gregory opened his mouth to say something, but he was silenced by the hand clamping down over his own, and then the falsely cheerful voice from the front of the bus.

"All righty, boys, we're here!" a man said jovially; Gregory and Christophe peered over the third-year's seat to see who was speaking. A tall man who was far too skinny for his own good; he was wearing camouflage pants and black boots with a stained white muscle shirt (showing off nothing) that boasted the phrase: "I AM A GOOD PERSON; YOU ARE, TOO!" He had greasy, graying hair pulled back in a ponytail, and he was holding a clipboard carefully in the crook of his arm. Gregory elbowed Christophe when the brunette snickered under his breath at the man, though a few other first-years giggled, as well. "Now I want y'all to listen up; I'm gonna be tellin' you about a few changes that'll be takin' place this year. By the way, first-years, my name is Mr. Milfrey…and you won't have to worry about any of this, so don't bother. Everyone else, first off, Miss Williams had the repair crews come in over the winter, so Cabin F's roof doesn't leak anymore. Y'all won't be stayin' with Cabin D anymore."

There was a brief round of applause from a few of the boys in the back of the bus. Mr. Milfrey flashed a mouthful of yellow-gray teeth at them before he continued.

"Secondly, despite the startling amount of complaints we got last year, there will still be a curfew and a rise-and-shine time. This ain't a camp for sissies, boys, you're here to learn how to be men. Thirdly—and I'm gonna be announcin' this to the whole camp later, too—when you come to me for counselin'…I don't want to hear about how horny y'all are gettin'. It's not my fault you're stuck out here without girly magazines for a month every summer, is it?" Many of the other boys—especially the older ones—all groaned in disappointment, and Gregory suddenly found Milfrey's smile very fake, even though he had no idea what it meant to be "horny". Christophe snorted and muttered something about "…sink with zer dicks…" under his breath. Gregory blinked at him, confused.

"Fourthly," Milfrey continued, consulting his clipboard for a moment, "first-years…you are all to follow me to the building where you'll get your very own camp uniform and set of rules. These rules are to be followed at all times; there are _no exceptions._" The counselor was looking around the entire bus, finding younger faces, and his eyes flitted over each visage nonchalantly, pausing only for a split-second on each set of confused eyes…but for some reason, Gregory sensed that the man's gaze first froze and then darkened when he saw Christophe. Three seconds passed in the blonde's mind before Mr. Milfrey looked away from Christophe, and Gregory fidgeted nervously. Something already felt wrong about this place. "Anyway, boys, when the bus stops, y'all know what to do," the man said in that horribly fake chuckle of a voice as the vehicle rolled slowly to a stop.

Christophe grasped Gregory's wrist and pulled him into the aisle, intent on being one of the first out of the smelly bus. The blonde tripped over several large shoes and looked sheepishly up into many pairs of glaring eyes before he found himself standing in what he immediately believed to be the hottest spot on the face of the earth. After a few moments of the general confusion of arrival, he looked up at the cloudless sky; the sun seemed to be focusing all of its energy down upon the two European boys' heads. The ground beneath them was dry and cracked from lack of rain, and a thought suddenly struck Gregory as he took in the yellow-and-brown landscape:

_So this is Nevada._

What part of Nevada, he wasn't sure. But it didn't take him long to decide that whatever part of the state it was, he didn't like it very much. He looked over at Christophe, who had released his arm, and he noticed that the young French boy was already sweating quite profusely. He wiped his forehead and glared around them, surveying what would be their home for the next month with a very critiquing eye.

"First-years," Mr. Milfrey said lazily, losing his false cheerful tone as quickly as the atmosphere had lost its artificial coolness. "Follow me."

A cloud of boys, many from other buses, made their way to Milfrey's side, and they followed him toward a long, log Cabin off to one side of what appeared to be the parking lot. All of the children were panting and rubbing at their faces, a few of them groaning that it was too hot for them to be outside. Milfrey muttered something like "get used to it, you little shits" while wiping his own forehead. Gregory stayed at Christophe's side even when Milfrey stopped the group at the front of the Cabin, pulling out his clipboard again and filtering through a few pages.

"When I call your name, go into the building. You'll be directed further onward once you're inside," the man growled. "These boys are in Cabin A…." He proceeded to call out names, and slowly the group grew smaller and smaller, with Gregory and Christophe still standing out in the heat, until finally, he began with Cabin H. "…Cabin H…Brown…Delorne…Hoffman…Lewis…Porter…Thorne…"

Christophe's arm quickly regained feeling as he walked into the Cabin with a smirk on his face, listening to Gregory's delighted giggles.

They went down a long hallway together and were pointed in the direction of a door marked "CABIN H: RUFUS" by a tall man with a black moustache and equally black glasses. Gregory stopped laughing at the sight of this foreboding stranger and clung to his friend again, nervous as he looked around the dark, dusty halls. The paintings of crying clowns that hung on the walls seemed to stare at them as they walked past, whispering insults at them for some secret, evil reason. The blonde shivered and Christophe squeezed his hand gently in consolation as they stopped in front of Rufus's door.

After a few seconds of hesitation and several pained glances at Gregory, Christophe knocked. A man that Gregory assumed was Rufus pulled the barrier open and grinned down at the pair; he was just as strange-looking as Milfrey, wearing bright green slacks and glistening black dress shoes, with a ripped white work shirt and a crooked grin beneath his crooked nose on his crooked face. His gray eyes gleamed down at them in a corpselike way that sent a shiver down even Christophe's spine.

"Well well well," Rufus wheezed; Gregory's fingers clamped down around Christophe's upper arm, and the frightening man's eyes focused on the tiny hands for several long seconds before he continued speaking. His eyes didn't seem able to find the boys' faces. "What a cute couple you are, what a cute couple indeed. Come on inside, boys, no need to be shy." He nudged them in with his gnarled hands, stroking Gregory's golden curls in a way that made the Brit tremble involuntarily against the violent chill that tore through his body. There was just something _wrong_ about these people, Gregory thought, upset. The old man beamed and closed the door behind them.

Rufus's office was filled with clutter and littered with green shirts and brown pants; pairs of boots and gloves and socks and underwear, strewn over the floor, chairs, his desk, his bookshelves. There were cobwebs in the uppermost reaches of the ceiling, and the streaked window behind the desk gave the three of them a view of the vast, yellow desert. Gregory had no idea how things had managed to change so quickly from silvery and city-like into a barren, sandy wasteland. He heard Christophe breathe out sharply as Rufus stepped out in front of them, still smiling in that creepy way, and all of the blonde's thoughts were drawn immediately back to this terrifying man before them.

"So boys…what are your names?" he asked in that creaking voice of his. Christophe glowered up at him, showing no fear.

"I am Christophe Delorne, and zees eez my friend, Gregory Zorne." Rufus began pushing underpants off of his desk and pulled out a piece of paper boasting the roster for his Cabin the moment that Christophe began speaking, but he glanced up from his list when the French boy finished his sentence.

"Zorne?" the man asked, looking at the ceiling. Gregory shuddered and hated that he had done it afterward.

"…H-he means 'Thorne', sir…sometimes…h-he has a hard time making '_thhh_' sounds…he h-has an accent, you see…"

"Ahh, and so do _you!_" Rufus chuckled, almost victoriously. "British and French, the two of you are! How beautiful…how young and tender you both are…and of fair origins, ahh…in my Cabin for ten years…this is wonderful!" Gregory suddenly wanted to cry, though he wasn't sure exactly _why_ he felt that way; he felt rather sick to his stomach, and there was a weird crawling sensation plaguing his lower abdomen. He grabbed at Christophe's hand and whispered something into his ear that only the brunette understood. Christophe scowled at Rufus.

"We are 'ear for our uniforms, _oui?_" Christophe snapped. Rufus jerked back into reality.

"Oh, yes, yes. It says here…both of you need smalls for everything. Excellent. Just let me gather you up everything you need," the old man said, sounding a bit stiff, now that he was being forced to work. He began sorting through the articles of clothing and threw quite a few dark green turtleneck shirts at the boys' feet, along with several pairs of brown pants that appeared to be made of canvas. Both boys received one pair of shiny black combat boots, a belt, a pair of gloves, and a dozen or so pairs of underwear. Christophe picked the gloves up and stared at them appraisingly for a moment or so before he pulled them on. They were black and elbow-length; fingerless and boasting a square-shaped hole on the back of the hand. The French boy rolled them down around his wrists and grinned at Gregory, enjoying himself for a few brief seconds before Rufus turned back to face them and smiled in that twisted way again.

"Okay, boys. Go ahead and get undressed for me, and get changed into your new uniforms."

Christophe blinked accusingly at Rufus after a few moments of awkward silence had passed between the three of them. "…Right 'ear?" he asked, sounding rather shocked.

Rufus grinned and nodded. "Well, where _else_ is there?"

…Something cold and sharp slid into Gregory's brain. This took the cake. This man was _not_ normal. No matter what, Gregory remembered, his mother had always told him that when a stranger asks you to do something that you know is wrong—like getting naked in front of them—you should do everything you can to resist them. Bite, kick, scratch, scream, run…whatever it takes.

…But instead of doing as Katherine had told him, his mind froze, and he started to peel his shirt slowly off.

"…No."

He was stopped again, though this time by a warm set of fingers on his arms, jerking his shirt back down over his body. Rufus's bizarre smile quickly became a dead snarl of a frown on his sallow face. Christophe glared at him with an equally evil look cursing his lips and eyes.

"I won't do eet. You will leave ze room while we change."

Rufus's face twitched, and he fidgeted with his hands a few times before he answered. "I don't have to listen to a—!"

"My muzar 'as words for people like you. She calls you sheets _pedophiles_. Do you know what zat means, Meestar Rufus? Eet means you are a feelthy, sick person and you should be shot een ze 'ead!" Christophe spat, grabbing Gregory and pulling him close. "Eet makes me want to _vomit_, knowing zat you would try to take advantage of me and my dearest friend! I should kick you een ze balls for zees!"

…The blonde felt a strange, deep-seated affection for Christophe the moment these words passed between the French lips; an affection that, at that point, he had no idea would never, ever go away. He suddenly felt very protected in his friend's arms…even more protected than he had ever felt when his own _mother_ had held him on nights when the monsters beneath his bed threatened to devour him whole.

"Now you can leave us, or I will tell 'ooevar eez een charge 'ear zat zer eez a _pervert_ running zees Cabin! I am sure zat no one 'as evar told on you before, yes?" Rufus twitched again, looking much paler, now. "I sought as much. Go!" the brunette demanded, pointing to the door. The old man gave him a very scathing look before he walked quickly out of his own office and slammed the door so hard behind him that cobwebs fell from the ceiling.

After a few seconds of astonished quietude (during which Gregory was released and a very satisfied Christophe began getting undressed), Gregory turned sheepishly to face his best friend. "…Christophe," he whispered, as if afraid that Rufus was listening in on them. "I…h-how did you—?"

"I 'ave no desire to show my naked arse to zat 'orny son of a beetch," the French boy muttered, pausing halfway into one of his new sets of underwear to smile gently at Gregory. "And besides…I could tell zat you were too afraid to say what needed to be said. Eet eez all right. I understand."

"I…I was _not_ afraid!" Gregory cried indignantly, though his cheeks turned a telltale shade of pink. Flustered, he jerked his old pants and underwear off, throwing them into a pile with Christophe's clothes and quickly redressing his nether regions, just in case Rufus decided that he was tough enough to take Christophe on if it was really necessary. The brunette beamed at Gregory.

"I could feel your 'ands shaking, _mon chéri._"

The Brit blushed even more furiously at this tender accusation and busied himself by jerking on his new turtleneck and ignoring Christophe. Soft lips met his cheek as soon as the fabric was down around his neck, and blue eyes focused on glistening green ones. Christophe hugged him briefly and then grinned at him, looking as if he were on top of the world.

…_He seems so _happy_ now, _Gregory thought sadly, tracing the curve of that comforting smile with his shy sapphire eyes. _It's so hard to tell what he's thinking, or what he'll do next…why does he _always_ have to be like this?_

"…You 'old grudges against ze wrong people," Christophe sighed, ruffling his best friend's curly hair. "Always against ze ones trying to 'elp you, nevar against ze ones trying to 'urt you. And you know why, Gregory? Eet eez because you sink too much, and you worry too much about ze sings you do not understand. Care less about me, and ze world will be zat much simpler."

"B-but I…I don't _want_ to care less about you! Never! I'll never stop caring about you as much as I do!" Gregory said, hurt, before he even realized that he was thinking the words. He blushed ferociously and clamped his hands over his mouth, but Christophe just smiled and chuckled sweetly under his breath.

"…I know. And zat eez precisely why I told zat man to leave ze room," he muttered, gathering up their new clothes before giving Gregory a loving shove toward the door. "Because you care so much about me, and I care so much about you."

For some reason, it no longer felt strange to accept the fact that Christophe could feel caring toward another person, and Gregory realized—as they scampered past a scowling Rufus and were first given their rule sheets, then directed back out into the heat by the moustachioed man—that he _liked_ the loss of that strangeness.

He liked it very much, indeed.

* * *

Within the hour, the boys found themselves seated inside of a huge, low-ceilinged, one-story building, off at the far left-hand table of the ten long wooden surfaces that were set up in the camp's cafeteria. The tables were poorly labeled by numbered pieces of paper stuck to the wood with masking tape; Gregory and Christophe, were, of course, at the table labeled with a "1", amongst a number of equally nervous seven-year-olds. The other, older boys were all laughing and yelling for _food! Food!_ while a number of disgruntled-looking adults stood up on a platform, in front of what Gregory assumed was the staff table. An American flag that was as big as the wall itself was tacked up behind the staff's seats. Christophe eyed it suspiciously as Milfrey, Rufus, the sunglasses man, and a number of other men sat down in their seats. A rather frightening-looking woman was making her way past a piano onto the stage. 

She was very large and pear-shaped, with a plump tomato for a head. Her gray-brown hair was swept messily back into a bun on top of her head, and she had mean, black eyes set deep in her skull below her over-plucked eyebrows. Her lower lip stuck out way too far, her cheeks sagging, very much like the jowls of a bulldog. She was wearing a gray-green suit with black dress shoes, and clutched in her left hand was a thick riding crop. All of the boys went silent when they saw that she was on the stage, and Gregory had the sickening thought that this woman would eat him, if need be.

She grinned in a way that contorted her face and sent a shiver up Gregory's spine. "Welcome to another year at my academy, boys!" she said, her voice thick and throaty. Her eyes sped to the first-years' table, and a few of them actually gasped in horror. She chuckled lightly. "If you don't already know, my name is Ms. Wilma Williams, and this—" she gestured around herself obtusely "—is my Military Academy for Boys. Here, you will learn the values of discipline, self-respect, respect for others, and just what it means to do a hard day's work. This isn't meant to be fun and games, and I assure you that it will not be, in any way, _fun._ So don't count on it. We go to bed at eight o'clock every night and get up at four o'clock every morning. We eat breakfast at five AM, lunch at eleven thirty AM, and dinner at six PM. In between meals, we have drills and chores. On weekdays at seven o'clock PM, for an hour before bed, we have group counseling. On weekends, there is time for individual counseling at this time. Talk to Mr. Milfrey about scheduling individual counseling." Milfrey waved from his seat.

Wilma put quite a lot of effort into an attempt at an actually nice-looking smile. She looked constipated. "I do hope that you enjoy your first month with us," she said almost politely to the seven-year-olds. One or two of them nodded; the rest of them exchanged unsure glances. The man in the sunglasses got up from the table and walked quickly toward the piano; the pear-shaped woman turned quickly back toward the other campers, and Gregory felt a wave of negative energy hit him hard in the face. There was a chorus of soft groans from the older boys' tables as the falsely cheery face of Wilma Williams announced; "and now, it is time for The Anthem!" and the tinny sound of the old piano churning out an unclassified chord echoed through the dining hall. The poor instrument was terribly out of tune, Gregory noticed (even though he had only heard a piano played about twice before in his short life), and he felt tension radiating off of the young Frenchman beside him as realization struck them both.

"Oh, don't tell me zey are going to _sing_…" Christophe groaned.

"I'm afraid so…" Gregory replied, furrowing his eyebrows.

Wilma flailed her arms around in the air in a pitiful attempt at conducting the feeble singing that sounded out from the second-to-tenth-year students' tables. Her own voice burst forth like the screams of so many children being attacked with baseball bats, carrying the words to a song that neither Christophe nor Gregory would ever successfully manage to forget:

"_Representing freedom,  
I will fight for what is right;  
And to protect my country,_  
_I'll stand tall...  
__I will try my hardest,  
__To serve my fair native land;  
__And to protect my people,  
__One and all..._

_Forward we will go,  
__Our sprits never down or low;  
__Because we know that we will never fall...  
Forward we will go,  
Our spirits never down or low;  
Because we know that we will never fall!"_

The piano player ended with a sort of flourish, then got up abruptly from the bench and headed back to his own seat at the staff table. Wilma nodded and turned around, taking her own seat. "…_Vive la France_," Christophe muttered after a few moments of astonished silence on his fellow first-years' parts, a dark smirk on his face. Gregory giggled under his breath.

"_FOOD!_" Wilma shouted, clapping her massive hands and scaring several of the younger boys quite badly. Dozens of men wearing orange jumpsuits ran out of a door to the left of the first-years' table, carrying trays of assorted meat products. "Meat makes little boys strong!" Ms. Williams declared as the orange-clad men piled food onto the boys' plates. They ran away and left their trays on the tables, more men rushing out of the kitchen carrying bowls of potatoes and carrots. "Vegetables make little boys smart!" The drill was repeated until every boy had a full plate and a cup of water, and each time they received a new food, Wilma said something about its significance to them, growth-wise. "Water cleanses the soul," she told them, raising her cup (which Gregory noted, from the bottle of Chardonnay on the table, was full of wine instead of water). "And now…we eat."

They ate. Gregory noticed right away that the meat was too tough and the vegetables were too soft; not at all like his mother's cooking. He sighed halfway through his chicken leg and didn't feel too hungry anymore, leaning his chin against his palm and burying his carrots in his potatoes with his fork. Christophe looked over at Gregory, chewing savagely at a mouthful of poultry.

"…What eez ze matter?" he asked softly, though he could have spoken normally; the other boys were back to screaming and shouting at one another. Gregory looked over at his friend sadly.

"…I miss Mum already," he said, shaking his head. Christophe gave him a blank look, not understanding for a few seconds, but then he nodded.

"Of course you do. She eez a nice lady, your muzar," he said, shoveling carrots into his mouth. "She cooks much better zan zees, too." Gregory smiled at Christophe, soothed for a moment, but then he sighed again. The green eyes narrowed uncertainly at him. "…Eet eez only for a month, Gregory. Zen we go back to ze Cabin, and ze snow, and ze soldiers."

Gregory knew Christophe was right. And he knew that they had already talked this over. But still, he couldn't help but have second thoughts. He loved his mother very much, and being in this harsh environment for a month, away from her comforting words and protection? He knew he could at least _try_ to deal with it, but still, he didn't know how he would be able to handle it for more than a week. Christophe clapped a hand on Gregory's shoulder.

"Look," he murmured, glancing around them as if he knew that he was doing something that he shouldn't have been doing. "…Eef…eef sings get too 'ard for you…I will 'elp you out, een any way zat I can. But ozarwise…you 'ave to tough it out, Gregory. I know you are not like I am. But you are still strong, and I know zat you can do zees, even eef you do need a bit of 'elp een ze beginning."

Gregory stared at him, dumbstruck and very flattered. The other boys ignored them, talking and laughing amongst each other, making friends. _But I don't need anyone but him_, the blonde's mind whispered to him, making him smile. _He's better than all of these boys combined._ Christophe squeezed Gregory's shoulder softly before turning back to his dinner and pretending like nothing had happened between them, as he always did when they were in public. Later that night, the Brit knew, he would feel that subtle desire to have Christophe's thin body beside him; to have that comforting warmth of breath on his neck and to smell the gentle fragrance of the French boy's hair…and Christophe would not come to him, because they would be in a room with many other boys. It was something Gregory had long since grown accustomed to; Christophe's presence in bed with him. What would happen, he wondered, now that he could no longer have it? Now that he would be deprived of his security blanket?

"…Thank you, Christophe," he whispered, not sure what else to say. "You always look out for me."

The brunette nodded and flashed Gregory a sweet smile before turning back to his food. Gregory, after hesitating for a moment, sighed and ate his dinner, doing his best to prepare himself for a month of what would surely be his first taste of Hell.


	5. AKA The Mole

AAARGH SCHOOL STARTED FOR ME TODAY! I am officially in the ninth grade. Nahaha. :D

I wrote "The Anthem" shortly after I began the first chapter. I think that song is what triggered this super-long flashback sequence. Gahaha. For some reason, this reminds me of Forrest Gump. XDD

* * *

**Chapter Five**

Either the sun was late rising the next day, or Wilma Williams was, as several of the older boys put it:

"Out of her motherfucking _mind!_"

Gregory shot into a sitting position in his small single bed as the sound of a thousand angry cats being neutered while not under anesthesia drifted through the cracks in the door and windows. Or, at least, that was what it _sounded_ like. In reality, Wilma was standing at her desk in her office, playing a bagpipe as loudly as she could over the intercom. Gregory had never heard something so horrid before in his life.

Rufus threw the door open and barked into the Cabin: "Awake! Awake! Report to breakfast in ten minutes, or you go through the first set of drills with an empty stomach!" The other boys began slowly moving along, grabbing socks and shirts and belts while they grumbled indignantly under their breaths about how normal humans had things called _sleep patterns_ that they liked to stick to. Gregory felt a hand on his arm, and when he looked over to his right, there stood Christophe in his new green turtleneck. It really brought out the green in his eyes, making them glisten like raw emeralds, even in the dim light of the not-quite-morning.

"Come, Gregory," the French boy murmured. "Time to be…eh…'active'."

Gregory got dressed sloppily, yawning as he went, and he actually dozed off once while he was lacing up his boots. Christophe smacked his face gently a couple of times and handed him his gloves, tying his shoes for him before pulling him out of the Cabin and into the wide world. It was cooler outside after several hours of darkness, and for a moment, it felt almost like an autumn day in New York, sending a shiver of nostalgia through Gregory's body. Christophe breathed in deeply through his nose and let it out through his mouth, grunting. "…Eet smells like dirt and smoke out 'ear."

"M'not surprised," the blonde replied sleepily, covering his mouth with his hand as he yawned yet again. Christophe gave him a puzzled look, and he pointed over to where the showers were; a few of the older boys from other Cabins were perched there, watching the two of them with glaring eyes as they smoked cigarettes. Christophe recognized one of them as the dark-skinned boy who had been making fun of them on the bus, and he scowled when the boy grinned through his cigarette and flashed his middle finger in their direction. Christophe grabbed Gregory's wrist and pulled him a bit harder than was necessary into the cafeteria while the smoking boys laughed behind them.

They found their seats at the first-years' table, where a few other half-conscious boys had already settled down. Within minutes, Gregory was leaning on Christophe's shoulder and snoring softly while the French boy muttered embarrassed curses under his breath. The ninth- and tenth-years were staring at him with raised eyebrows and suggestive smiles, as if asking him some dirty question and daring him to answer incorrectly. He grabbed Gregory's head and set it carefully on the table; the blonde didn't stir from his slumber, though the older boys got a laugh out of it. Christophe stared down at the table with a red face and wished desperate fire upon them all. Today was already shaping out to be a horrible day.

A few minutes later, the cafeteria was about half-full (mostly the younger kids were absent). Wilma rose from her seat at the staff table and clapped her hands, and the moustached man walked over to the doors and locked them from the inside, making a few of the older boys snicker. "They're not here, they're not eating," Wilma said. Gregory grunted in his sleep, and Christophe looked at him thoughtfully. "Now…_FOOD!_"

The blonde shot up in his seat so fast that he nearly fell out of it. Christophe smirked at him and elbowed him as bowls of grits were placed in front of them. "What's ze matter?" he asked teasingly. "Did you 'ave trouble sleeping last night?"

"Yes," Gregory grumbled, rubbing his eye unhappily with his fist.

"Tell me about eet," Christophe requested, poking at his grits. Gregory gave him a look.

"Well…first, the bed was quite uncomfortable. Second, everyone else kept…snoring and _farting_ in their sleep." He screwed his face up in distaste. "Third, it was difficult falling asleep without proper pajamas."

Christophe laughed, and Gregory felt his stomach turn, though it wasn't from the food. "Aha_ha!_ Some of ze boys een our Cabin slept _naked._ I noticed eet zees morning…I guess _zey_ didn't care zat zey didn't 'ave pajamas."

Gregory blushed furiously, accidentally blending _naked_ with the rest of his fourth reason in his head. It was supposed to be: "I couldn't get to sleep because you weren't there with me." Thanks to Christophe, it skipped and turned into: "I couldn't get to sleep because you weren't naked with me."

"…That's _lovely_, Christophe, thanks for telling me," the blonde growled, struggling to reorient himself. He wound up rewording the entire reason. "Anyway, the fourth reason why I couldn't get to sleep…it…it was odd to be _alone_, for once. It's been a while since I…you know. Slept by myself."

"Aww," Christophe said, with just a hint of bitter sarcasm that made Gregory look at him, confused. "Zat eez so sweet. I am _meesed._ Hah. Gregory…we are 'ear to learn 'ow to be strong. For you een particular, zees means zat you are 'ear to learn 'ow to fall asleep without me zer beside you. So get used to being alone. Zat eez 'ow eet's going to be from now on."

…He finished eating his grits and refused to look back at the blonde all throughout the remainder of breakfast; mostly because Gregory was wearing the most hurt expression anyone in the cafeteria could ever have imagined. The young blonde had never felt so much coldness contained in one paragraph before in his life. It felt like Christophe had just told him that he didn't feel like playing War anymore, and that they should probably put all the plastic soldiers and Tinker Toys away, now.

The Brit felt tears gathering in his eyes when Wilma suddenly blew a whistle and all the other boys got to their feet. The first-years scrabbled to follow suit as the others all filed out of the cafeteria and everyone found themselves out in the pink of dawn, among a few whimpering about being hungry. Wilma's jowls quivered as she surveyed her lot of pupils, and Milfrey handed her a clipboard. She began to read aloud from it as Gregory wiped his eyes and Christophe chose to look at other things.

"This is the schedule for today's events!…Tenth- through sixth-years will report to the field for endurance drills! Fifth-years will be repainting the shutters on _all_ the Cabins, beginning with Cabin A! Fourth-years will be scrubbing the scum out of the shower stalls! Third-years will be taking inventory of all the food in the kitchen and helping the chefs design a menu for the next month, as well as assisting in the preparation of lunch! And finally…" she grinned evilly, and the world around her seemed to darken. Gregory felt something unpleasant crawl down his spine. "…Second- and first-years…will be _digging_ today. _REPORT TO YOUR POSITIONS!_"

The crowd of boys (save the first-years, who had little clue as to precisely what was going on) raised their hands to their foreheads in salute. "_Ma'am, yes ma'am!_" they cried in unison, and Gregory and Christophe quickly found themselves being pulled along in a sea of first- and second-years toward a tiny shed beside the showers. The man with the moustache pushed past them and made his way carefully to the door of the shed with a key in hand, using it to remove the giant padlock on the doors before pocketing it and carefully pulling the doors open. Dirt fell to the ground, and the man coughed a few times before he reached in and began passing out shovels to the boys. Some of the boys were actually smaller than the shovels were, and Gregory thought this might have been funny, had it not been so sad. They were expected to dig with tools that were bigger than _they_ were? That didn't seem right, to him. Not at all.

Once they all had shovels, Moustache mumbled something about stopping at a marker and pointed the boys in the direction of a vast expanse of desert. Squinting, Gregory could see a tiny orange flag fluttering off in the distance. The second-years began to move, pushing him from behind…there was no going back, now. They were off.

* * *

They were supposed to dig holes, because digging holes built muscles, and would prepare them for other—much more grueling—activities there at camp. 

But digging was harder than it had sounded. It quickly got very, very hot, and Gregory yearned to take his shirt off like some of the other boys, although he knew this was a bad idea; if he did, he would surely be sunburned all over. He thought himself smart for making this choice, and when he saw that Christophe was among the boys who had removed their turtlenecks, he felt even more proud of himself. He would have a reason to laugh later, he thought bitterly as he looked down at his wimpy hole. Compared to Christophe's, he had only dug a trench whereas the Frenchman had dug the Grand Canyon twice over. He could see the laughter glinting in those green eyes, and he pushed himself harder, his face flushed with aggravation.

_I cun do this_, Gregory thought, despite the fact that his muscles were already aching horribly. _I cun beat him. I cun show him that I'm just as tough as he is. He's not that tough, anyway. He's a stupid…idiot. Yeah! He's an idiot!_

…An hour or so into digging, some of the other boys began to take time to stop and stare at what Christophe was doing. There was some sort of methodic precision to his movements that seemed almost robotic, to them; He would bend, thrust the shovel into the dirt, and throw the dirt over his shoulder into a pile in one great, fluid movement. Bend, thrust, throw. Bend, thrust, throw. It never slowed or stopped. It was just Christophe and the shovel, tunneling under the ground as one. His hole was so deep there was a tiny pool of water at the bottom. And still he kept on, impressing the others greatly and irritating the hell out of Gregory.

The Brit glowered at his own hole, which was hardly three feet deep. There was no way he could compete with Christophe, now, and he knew it. But still, he took comfort in the fact that he was further along than several of the other boys were; second-years, even! He pushed on and on and dug as fast as he could, even as Christophe began digging crookedly and disappeared beneath the earth.

"That kid digs like a mole," some of the second-years began to whisper, actually walking up to Christophe's hole and abandoning their own just to look at the void the French boy had made.

"_Neh neh neh, digs like a mole_," Gregory mocked them quietly, spitting in his own hole. He had never been so angry with Christophe before in his life. In fact…he didn't think he had ever even been angry with Christophe before at all. But first, the brunette had told Gregory he was a wimp…and now he was upstaging him? How cruel could one boy _be?_ Gregory shot a death-stare over toward the entrance to Christophe's cavern, gripping his shovel more tightly through his gloves and trudging through pointless pounds of dirt.

That was when a finger appeared in the bottom of Gregory's hole, jutting numbly out of the dirt like some morbid flower.

Gregory promptly shrieked and scrambled out of his hole, much to the amusement and confusion of his fellow campers. "_A b-buh-BODY!_" he cried, running as far away from his own hole as he could and taking up refuge behind a second-year. "_Oh, God! There's a BODY in my hole!_"

The other boys exchanged uneasy glances before they began to climb slowly out of their trenches and gather around Gregory's hole. The finger was still there, pale and without reason, only now it was…twitching. The finger rose out of the ground, bringing with it a tiny, black-gloved hand and making all the boys gasp. They watched in amazement as another hand followed, and then, coughing and sputtering, there came a head, covered with a shaggy mop of chocolate hair that Gregory knew all too well.

Christophe Delorne blinked into the bright sunlight, squinting up at the mass of thrilled faces above him. He was completely covered in dirt; it clumped in his hair and his eyelashes like little parasites clinging to their host. He spat dirt out to the side and shook his head, shedding a cloud of dust before he pushed himself up and out of the hole, his legs still dangling down into the tunnel he had made from his hole to Gregory's. He scowled up at the other boys, and they all backed up a few steps.

"What are _you_ looking at?" he demanded, brushing dirt off of his skinny, bare arms. He looked confused for a minute, and then he grinned softly, reaching back down into the tunnel and dragging his shovel out with him. He got to his feet and climbed out of the hole, the crowd parting automatically for him as he walked to a fresh patch of dirt and began again.

Within five minutes, the other boys had gone back to their own holes, grinning and whispering: "_The Mole. The Mole. The Mole._" Gregory stood beside his own hole, staring down into it at the pathway Christophe had made. He felt horrible inside, being shunned by his best and only friend. What, he wondered, had he done to deserve this? He wanted to crawl into the tunnel and cry, but he couldn't. Big boys didn't cry.

So instead, he found a fresh patch of dirt and began again.

* * *

None of them really knew just _why_ they were digging. The precise reason was never really explained to them, other than the fact that it would "toughen them up". For the next few days, though, the first- and second-years were sent out to that same little area and were told to dig. So they dug. And they made a huge crater in the ground that, on the sixth day of camp, after Christophe and several of the other boys had been quite nastily sunburned, Ms. Wilma Williams herself came out to inspect. 

All of the boys were wearing their shirts, some of them wincing against the sting of baked skin when they moved. Gregory was sitting against the side of the crater, panting for breath as he pretended not to watch Christophe helping the other boys. The two of them had said almost nothing to one another since the first day of camp, and Gregory was secretly heartbroken by this fact. No one else would talk to him; he wasn't _cool_ enough. He hadn't _proven_ himself, yet. Not like Christophe, who dug like a crazy person and could stare down even the most frightening of the older boys without breaking a sweat. Christophe had even increased the space between them during meals to over eight inches. Gregory hated that they were drifting apart, and that he had almost no idea what he had done to cause it.

He had been longing to talk to the brunette, but Christophe would not so much as _look_ at him, now, if he could help it. But Gregory knew that Christophe felt bad about their distance, too; he could feel those green eyes on him at night as he tossed and turned and struggled to sleep in that strange, cold bed. Christophe was always watching him, observing, contemplating, and sometimes Gregory could hear that tiny whining sound in the French boy's breaths that meant he was holding back tears.

They had group counseling at seven o'clock every night. There, the boys from each year would take turns sitting in the cafeteria at their table with Mr. Milfrey, and a few of them would talk about the things that bothered them. Christophe was always deathly silent during that time, listening hard to the other boys' stories, and Gregory knew that dark, venomous look in his eyes was the thought that _none of them have felt the pain that I have._ Gregory never spoke, either, although he sometimes wished that he had the courage to talk about how he didn't like Christophe distancing himself from Gregory. He wanted to talk about how he despised times like this; when he felt like everything he had ever thought he had known for sure about Christophe was a lie. When his best friend seemed to shed his skin and become some strange sort of monster until he re-grew his shell and became a slightly different version of the Christophe that Gregory cared for so deeply. Sometimes the re-growth took an hour; sometimes it took a day; sometimes it took weeks. However long it took, though, Gregory had grown familiar with it to the point where he knew that the two of them would not speak to one another again until it was over. All he could do was wait it out, most of the time, but he thought that maybe talking about it would speed things along. He was too shy, though.

…But nonetheless, there had been hints of the closeness returning sometime soon.

Gregory had felt the eyes on him the previous night, when he had been unable to get to sleep; he had gotten out of bed and crept quietly out of the Cabin, the only sounds being those of the other boys snoring and the soft padding of his bare feet on the floorboards. He had felt the green on his back while he had walked, and he had not stopped for a moment until he got to the door. Then, he had turned around to see if he was being followed; Christophe was still in his bed, lying flat on his back. Gregory had opened the door and stepped outside into the warm night air.

The desert was soft at night; not at all harsh and stinging as it was during the day. It tasted like paper and it smelled like sweat and blood and mold. Gregory hated that smell; it was nothing like the crunchy, jagged scent of ashes and water and metal that always surrounded their cabin up in Colorado. But regardless, he had walked out to the showers and had leaned against the stale wood that stank faintly of cigarettes (an odor that, at that point, he had no idea he would eventually become quite aroused by). He looked up at the night sky, thick with stars and clouds and moonlight, and he had smiled. He remembered one night, about a year ago, when he had been talking to Christophe because neither of them could get to sleep. They had been discussing aliens. Gregory said that there was no chance of there being such monstrosities as the people in Hollywood portrayed in movies…at least, not living as nearby as in their own galaxy. Perhaps in some far-off, distant place, Gregory had said, there might be a race of people just as intelligent, if not _more_ intelligent, than humans. Christophe had snorted and said that there were aliens all around; tiny ones, living everywhere. In leather shoes; in his mother's hair; in boxes of Easy Mac and Captain Crunch. Gregory had laughed himself to sleep that night, he remembered, and his heart sank when he recalled that Christophe had laughed, too. It seemed so long since he had heard Christophe laugh.

_Too_ long.

Without realizing it, Gregory had bowed his head and linked his hands together against his chest. He didn't know exactly how to say what he wanted to say, but he was going to try his best.

"…Dear God," he whispered. "…Please…let me help Christophe. He is not as strong as he believes he is. I know that I am far from strong, as well…but neither of us cun make it on our own. Please…we both need help. I'm sorry I haven't been as good a friend toward him as I could be, but…he just makes me so _mad_ sometimes!" He screwed up his face for a moment in thought. "…Perhaps you could…just let him know that I care for him, and that I want to be there for him. And…say 'ello and I love you to my dad for me, please." He added the latter of these sentences with subtle warmth coating his words, a faint smile on his lips. "…Thank you."

Gregory had walked slowly back to Cabin H, dragging his feet through the dirt. He didn't care that he would dirty his sheets. He was smiling; happily, at first, but then it grew sad, and by the time he sat back down on his own bed, he could feel tears in his eyes. He looked over at Christophe's still form. The eyes were closed. Gregory breathed out hard through his nose to hide the fact that he was about to cry, just in case Christophe was faking. The blonde crawled back into bed and streaked his white sheets with tan from the outside world. He lay on his right side, staring into the innocent, sunburned face of his best friend, and he sniffled.

"…I love you, Christophe," he breathed, and closed his eyes. Twenty minutes later, just as he was dozing off, Gregory felt soft lips press into his eyebrow, and that was enough to reassure him that God had heard his prayer. He had gone to sleep and dreamed of playing War with Christophe, and of smiling and laughing and feeling loved. Ms. Delorne was not in Gregory's dream.

…Now, leaning against the side of the crater, staring at the shaggy-haired French boy as he helped a fellow first-year with his digging, Gregory had the dark feeling that things weren't going to be as easy as asking The Almighty for help and getting it a few minutes afterward. Christophe had been just as distant as ever this morning at breakfast, and although Gregory had felt the eyes on him several times as the hours had passed, he could never meet gazes with the brunette. He was beginning to get frustrated. He picked at the yellow calluses on his hands through his gloves and glared down at his dirt-coated boots.

A huge, pear-shaped shadow fell over him, and he turned around, staring up into the sweaty face of Ms. Williams. He leapt to his feet and saluted her, as he had seen the other boys doing for days, now.

"Ma'am!" he cried. The other boys saw her and followed suit. She sneered at them all and laughed in a not-quite-human way.

"What a lovely hole you boys have dug this week. Very good!" she exclaimed, marching carefully around the perimeter of the ditch and pretending to look at the work they had done. Gregory saw her eyes linger on a few of the smaller boys, and he felt a pang of uneasiness in his belly. "…But there's still a long way to go before it's finished."

"Umm…excuse me, ma'am?" a second-year asked meekly, daring to raise his slightly shaking hand. Wilma's black eyes shot to him, and he started beneath her hellish gaze. "…Why exactly are we digging this huge hole?"

A crooked smile spread across her sagging face. "…You'll see," she said in a way that sent a tremor down the spine of every boy present. She nodded toward all of them and was about to turn around when she saw that one boy had apparently gotten bored and was back to digging again. Gregory looked and saw, too.

_Christophe._

She looked completely outraged for a moment, and Gregory, with quite a bit of sick flowing into his stomach, saw her clutch the handle of the riding crop at her side menacingly. She took a few steps forward, down into the hole, and she narrowed her eyes to better see the face of the defiant boy as she approached him. She noticed immediately the fluid way that he dug, and her lop-sided smile returned to her face very quickly as she stopped beside him and he looked up at her, half-interested and unimpressed. She flashed gray-yellow teeth at him.

"…You're Christophe Delorne, _aren't_ you, boy?" she asked softly, although Gregory and several of the other boys heard her and craned closer to better see the exchange. Christophe's emerald eyes narrowed.

"…Yes," he said thickly, and spat off to the side. "Zat eez my name."

She chuckled under her breath, and Gregory hated her for a reason he couldn't place when she patted the brunette on the head and ruffled his already wild hair. He bore his teeth at her in a very dog-like way. "Of course. The little French boy. Rufus and Milfrey were both quite sure that you would give me a lot of trouble. But you wouldn't do a thing like that, Christophe, now _would_ you?"

"Eet depends on what you mean by 'trouble'," he growled, leaning against the handle of his shovel and looking at her with an expression on his face that Gregory knew well; it meant that he would have rather enjoyed slapping that bloody smirk off her fat face. Her eyes flashed with contempt for a moment, her lips quivering as she struggled to keep that huge, fake grin from faltering.

"Oh, I think you know what I mean," she murmured. She reached forward and patted his cheek a few times; much harder than was necessary, on Gregory's radar. The blonde clutched his shovel and had, for a split-second, an image of Wilma Williams with a shovel blade buried in her skull. The thought scared him and excited him at the same time.

_God, Christophe, don't take this shit from her_, his mind whispered. Much to his surprise, the eyes found his, sparkling and laughing. He wondered if Christophe could hear his thoughts, and for some reason, he didn't find it strange to think that he probably _could._ He was that unintelligible, nowadays.

Christophe smiled at him—that gentle, affectionate _we-have-a-secret_ smile that Gregory usually saw only when they were playing War—and then he saluted Ms. Williams, who immediately allowed the anger to dissipate from her expression. She nodded at Christophe and glanced around at the other campers. "…I've heard that you have a nickname. It suits you," she said vaguely, then turned around and stomped off and out of the hole. Gregory saw him point his middle finger at her the moment she was out of range.

"Beetch. Zat's _your_ nickname, _Wilma,_" he murmured, smirking dirtily as he fixed one of the second-years with an inquisitive gaze. "What ze 'ell did she mean, I 'ave a nickname?" The other boys glanced around at each other nervously. Christophe cocked his eyebrows. "…Well? Speak up!" They said nothing. The brunette dropped his shovel and slunk up to the second-year, grabbing him by the front of his shirt and pressing their foreheads together. "_Speak_, you bastard!"

"Christophe!" Gregory snapped, making the French boy drop the helpless second-year and look up with wide, innocent eyes. _I didn't do a thing_, that face said. He beamed at Gregory. "Leave him alone."

"Do _you_ know what zey have been calling me?" he asked softly, and the smoothness of his voice made Gregory's breath hitch in his throat. Luckily, his face was sunburned; no one saw the blush that spilled across his cheeks. "Eez eet somesing _insulting?_"

"N-no, not really," the blonde said, confused by the way those glistening eyes made his fingers tingle. "You're 'The Mole', Christophe."

The French boy cocked his eyebrows. "Ze Mole?" he echoed, tasting the words. His face screwed up in contemplation as he thought this over. "Ze Mole…Mole, Mole…"

Gregory felt tenseness radiating off of the boys around him as they stiffened against their shovels, awaiting Christophe's approval or rejection. A tiny thought weaseled its way into his brain; one that would recur to him several times over the next few years:

_What is it about him that makes them respect him like they do?_

…It started as a soft, nearly inaudible chuckle; the kind that wracks your body, makes your shoulders tremble, your chest vibrate. The kind that sends the breath flowing through your lungs and makes your head spin; makes you dizzy, lightheaded. Then Gregory saw it; the flash of white teeth, the tanned lips spread in a broad, unbridled grin. The green eyes found Gregory's blue ones again and blended themselves with the cerulean, taking over, holding him, and Gregory was okay with that. Gregory liked that. Gregory _loved_ that. He smiled as his best friend's laughter played through the ivory, dancing in the hot, desert air, chasing the wind and making the world its own. The other boys smiled in relief, and soon after, Gregory found himself giggling, too, though it was nothing like the brunette's deep, genuine laughter.

_No one will ever be like him. He's special_, Gregory thought. _He's perfect._

And he laughed so hard that tears came to his eyes.

In that moment, Christophe—the boy who had almost nothing to his name—owned the entire universe.

And from that day forward, every single one of the students at Ms. Wilma Williams's Military Academy for Boys remembered Christophe Delorne as "The Mole". And he was quite proud of that, thank you very much.


	6. The Bad Boy

I want to thank everyone for the fantastic reviews I've been getting. It's really great to get so much support. I love you guys for reading this vomit…I really, really do. :P

Here's a nice long hunka-chunkin' chapter for you, because I love you all and I'm nucking futs. Wooh! (glee)

* * *

**Chapter Six**

Gregory was, by most peoples' standards, a _good_ boy.

Christophe had always been the exact opposite.

The blonde knew this because there was a boy in his grade at Yardale who reminded Gregory immensely of his young brunette friend. He was dark and angry and threw fits about everything an awful lot (in that way, he was _not_ like Christophe…Christophe usually hid his feelings until he was alone and then cried it all away), and Gregory had often heard the teachers talking about how bad of a kid that other boy was. And Gregory agreed with them on the subject of that other boy, which was a bit bizarre, considering he rather disliked thinking of Christophe as being "bad". Because Christophe _wasn't_ bad, at least not by Gregory's standards. Christophe was a good boy. He was simply misunderstood by most people.

Not that Gregory understood him any better than those other people, half of the time. After the first week of camp, when they had the weekend to relax and enjoy themselves, Christophe (freshly christened "The Mole" by his fellow campers) had acted as though spending a moment away from Gregory would be fatal to both of them. The blonde was highly confused by this, considering his best friend's distant behavior throughout the past week, and he never really _was_ given an answer as to why Christophe had suddenly had such a remarkable change of heart. Perhaps it was his new name that had brought him back. So Gregory called him "Mole", as well, though mostly just to see him smile like he did.

There was a bookshelf in the back of Cabin H, covered in dust and loaded with all the classics. Gregory and Mole quickly realized that the other boys all flocked to the rec room on the weekends, so they had the Cabin to themselves…and, given this opportunity, Gregory attacked the bookshelf and buried himself in words and pictures and poetry, curling up on his bed and staring intently at the pages while The Mole, for the first few hours, at least, lie on his own bed in a fetal position and watched Gregory with great intensity in his eyes. Every now and again, Gregory would look over at him and smile brightly, and the brunette would smile back, though hardly with as much fervor.

Just after lunchtime on their first Sunday at camp, Gregory was quite thoroughly indulged in _James and the Giant Peach_ when he felt the bed tilt and creak near his feet. He looked over the edge of the tattered old book and saw that Mole was now crouched at the foot of his bed, grinning. Gregory blinked.

"S'matter?" he asked, confused. Mole crept forward and gently tossed Gregory's book aside, the stubby, callused fingers sliding carefully over the blonde's neck and jaw. The green eyes glowed, that grin still plastered on his face, and there was some degree of insanity to his expression, though Gregory didn't identify it as madness. He saw it as something that he could not explain, yet. Concerned, Gregory furrowed his eyebrows and sat up, staring at The Mole. "What are you doing?"

"…I mees you," Mole breathed, leaning forward and pressing his thin face into the chest of Gregory's warm, yielding shirt. The Brit—baffled but still accepting of this odd gesture—wrapped his arms around The Mole's waist, feeling the uneven rise and fall of the brunette's chest against his belly. Mole breathed deeply, and Gregory looked down at him when he felt the soft sensation of lips against his ribs. "…You smell different. Not like zem. You smell like—"

"Mole, you're being weird."

There was a brief silence between them after these words passed Gregory's lips, and then the thin body twisted, catlike, against Gregory's. The brunette's belly pressed into the blonde's thighs. "…I am…just tired, _mon chéri_. I always act strangely when I am tired."

"…Oh," Gregory said, leaning back into the pillow and closing his eyes. His hands found Christophe's hair, playing with the locks absentmindedly. "Well…I miss you, too. But I'm right here. Why do you miss me?"

"…Eet eez better, now," Mole whispered vaguely, his bare fingers curling softly around Gregory's bed sheets. He exhaled long and hard through his nose, and Gregory felt the eyes close against his stomach. For some reason, it felt like they were home again. "…I am sorry zat I left you."

"It…it's okay," Gregory replied. The Cabin felt strangely quiet, all of a sudden. Empty and safe, as if they could have done anything and no one would have seen. He remembered the way that The Mole had laughed on Friday, and how he had suddenly been convinced, by that simple sound, that everything and everyone belonged to his best friend. Mole could be that powerful. Mole would grow up and hold the universe in his hand like a snow globe, Gregory thought, and he shuddered at the idea. It seemed so dark a prospect. He had a mental image of Mole smashing the snow globe universe with a hammer and laughing in that smooth, glasslike way. Gregory's fingers were knotted up in locks of soft, chocolate hair. "…I still love you."

Mole chuckled softly against him, and Gregory thought that it sounded slightly mocking, as if Mole didn't really believe that Gregory felt that way. He craned his neck and kissed the top of the shaggy head, his blue eyes narrowed in frustration. Mole breathed out and Gregory caught a whine in the exhale, so he leaned back again and tried to relax, for his friend's sake. The taller boy shivered dimly against him, and Gregory felt fingertips tracing the subtle curve of his sides, pausing at his hips before they reached back up and laced with Gregory's hands. The Mole didn't cry, but Gregory could tell that he had wanted to.

He just had no idea _why._

* * *

The next week, the first-years were given a different assignment. They would go off with Moustache and learn basic desert survival skills, while the second-years stayed behind and continued to dig. Gregory saw the yearning in the second-years' faces, but he also knew that they had all probably learned their basic skills the previous year; they just wanted to get out of digging. He smirked at them spitefully along with the other first-years and headed out toward the wasteland at The Mole's side every morning. 

The first-years had quickly realized that everything that was _truly_ important had been told to them on the first day out in the desert, so there was really no point in listening to the things that Moustache said every day. He didn't really notice it when they talked amongst themselves, anyway, so they took advantage of his absentmindedness and chatted merrily away about nothing in particular. Anything to pass the time. Gregory hadn't minded this, at first, until the other boys began to flock around him and Mole and focus all of their attention on the French boy. He felt a spike of indignation whenever one of the boys gave him a bitter look, as if they were thinking: _Who the hell are you, and why do you think that _HE_ would ever care about a nerd like _YOU_, you deluded poser?_ Mole could usually make it better, though; whenever someone actually voiced this thought (though _never_ in that precise way), he would cock his eyebrows and respond:

"Zees eez Gregory. 'E eez my best friend."

Usually the boy who had asked the question would back off sheepishly and eye Gregory enviously for the rest of the day. Sometimes he would laugh and ask if Mole was joking. And on the Tuesday of the second week of camp, he had actually looked over at Gregory for a moment before leaning down and asking Mole if the blonde was retarded, and he _had_ to keep him close because he had promised his parents that he would. _That_ boy had finished the day with a bloody nose, and Mole had been lectured by Mr. Milfrey for a good hour on the subject of peer cooperation. The brunette had smiled in an unreadable way at dinner that night, through The Anthem and chicken noodle soup, and Gregory felt rough fingers brush his own casually a few times during the meal. Those fingers were enough to reassure him that things between them were still right as rain.

And he loved that they were.

…But, of course, he had to find a way to screw things up again by opening his fat, British mouth.

Thursday, during group therapy. The Mole was, as usual, pretending to sleep while one of the other boys talked about his dog and bored the rest of the campers to death. Gregory and a few of the others giggled at Mole's antics, and Milfrey, hearing the disturbance, looked up from his clipboard. His brown eyes found The Mole's drooling face and narrowed angrily as the other boy stopped talking.

"That's real nice, Thomas," Milfrey murmured, glaring at Mole. "…_CHRISTOPHE DELORNE!_" he screamed, sending Mole shooting up into a sitting position. He scowled irritably at Mr. Milfrey (who had _dared_ to use his real name), his green eyes flashing. "…Do you have somethin' _you_ would like to share with the rest of us, since you're so bored out of your mind by what the other boys have to say?"

The Mole's fanclub looked at him expectantly, awaiting some witty comment with grins on their dirty little faces. Mole shrugged and wiped his mouth, adjusted the baldric he had begun wearing earlier that week (to carry a shovel around with him and further humor his fans…none of the administration had really seemed to notice this), smiling easily against their expectations. "Well…I 'ave always wondered where dirt comes from. Could you answer zat question for me, Meestar Milfrey?"

Milfrey's frown actually twitched, flashing an amused smile for a split-second before it became a full-fledged sneer again. "…It's decomposed shit from God's toilet," he said dryly. The entire table laughed. Milfrey rubbed his nose to hide his own snicker. "Does anyone else have somethin' to say before we wrap things up here?"

Gregory didn't even realize that he had raised his hand until his mouth opened and The Mole's eyes shot to his face. "Mr. Milfrey? Umm…I have a friend…whose mother hits him when she's mad at him. Or she does it for no reason at all, sometimes. And I've seen her do it…and it…it's horrible. He gets bruises and scars, and he cries a lot at night because of it…Mr. Milfrey, I really hate to see this friend of mine in any kind of pain…so I just want to know…why does his mum hit him when he's not even being bad?"

In reality, these thoughts had been bothering Gregory for years. He had just never really had anyone to discuss them with. Whenever he asked Mole about it, the brunette would either shrug it off and change the subject or grow angry with him and storm off for however long, until he cooled down and forgot that Gregory had even asked. Gregory had tried to talk to his own mother about it, but her response was always the same: "I'll tell you when you're older, sweetheart." And, of course, he was far too terrified of Ms. Delorne to even _think_ of asking her why she did what she did. But it frustrated him that he couldn't know, and, apparently, on that night, his mouth had decided that he had waited long enough for an answer.

…After Gregory had finished his question, the entire room immediately went deathly silent, as if God had just pressed the mute button on His great Universal Remote. Milfrey's eyes were wide and shocked, fixated on Gregory with a sort of awed horror, and the boys at the table seemed unsure just _what_ to think. Most of them looked as if they would have very much liked to leave the room; others looked amused, like they thought that Gregory was joking. The Mole was shaking in his seat, and Gregory could hear the brunette's teeth grinding angrily behind his lips. The bare fists were clenched in disgust against the table, the skin pulled so tight that it looked as if it might split open.

Milfrey cleared his throat awkwardly, just to bring some sound back into the room. "Gregory…are you bein' serious about this? Because this isn't somethin' you should joke about—"

"I'm very serious, Mr. Milfrey," Gregory said quietly. A few of the boys shuffled uncomfortably in their seats, and the old counselor stared across the table at the young British boy, a pained look in his eyes that reminded Gregory very much of the look his mother always gave him whenever he asked _her_ this question. Milfrey glanced around at the other boys for a moment, and his eyes rested on The Mole for a second, taking in the hateful look the French boy was shooting at Gregory.

Milfrey sighed wearily. "Boys…I want you all to go and shower up, now. Gregory…come here, please. I need to talk to you."

The other boys got up and made their way out of the cafeteria, not at all reluctantly. Gregory hesitated in his seat, staring at The Mole, and he opened his mouth to apologize, but Mole wasn't in the mood to hear it. He pinched Gregory hard on the arm and pushed him curtly into the table before he stomped out of the room, muttering curses to himself. The blonde nursed his arm and got up from the table, walking sheepishly up to Mr. Milfrey. The counselor was squeezing the bridge of his nose and looked much, much older than he had just a minute ago. He looked up when Gregory sat down opposite him.

"…Yes, sir?" the blonde asked. The brown eyes were dark and tired and seemed, somehow, to accentuate the wrinkles on Mr. Milfrey's greasy old face. Gregory noticed that the counselor's hands were shaking a little against the tabletop.

"…Gregory," he sighed, "you…you have to understand somethin'. Some grown-ups…have problems. Serious problems with their minds, and with their self-control. And most of the time, when parents beat their children…it's because they're alcoholics, which means, of course, that more often than not, they drink too much alcohol. Do you know what alcohol is?"

Gregory furrowed his eyebrows. "You mean like…beer?"

Milfrey looked slightly relieved that he didn't have to explain this to Gregory. "Yeah. Beer and wine and all that other stuff. Now I'm not sayin' that this is what's wrong with your friend's mother…but…maybe she drinks too much, and maybe she can't tell what she's doin' to him, because she's drunk. When grown-ups get drunk, they tend to have a hard time rememberin' what they do the morning afterward. They get headaches and get sick and all they want to do is sleep, and when they realize what they did when they were drunk, usually they feel bad about it."

"But she _never_ feels sorry for it," Gregory argued, picking at a spot on the table. "If you saw her, you would know…she's not drunk when she hurts him. She's always the same…mean and angry and hurtful. Every single day, and he hates her for it and I hate her for it, too. Because the way she looks at him and the way that she hits him is just like…like she wishes she could just _kill_ him. But I just want to know _why_ she does it, and _why_ she feels like that all the time."

"…Well if she doesn't drink, Gregory, then maybe she just doesn't like her boy very much," Milfrey said gently. Gregory's eyes widened and flashed with questions.

"B-but…if she doesn't like her son…then why did she bother to have him in the first place?" the blonde demanded, his face screwing up in frustration. "That doesn't make any sense!"

"Believe me, kid," Milfrey murmured, "I'm with you all the way on that one. But sometimes when people have babies, they want a girl, and they get a boy, instead. And sometimes people don't _plan_ on havin' a baby at all. Sometimes they just _happen._ And if you didn't ask for it, sometimes you feel cheated, because you have to work so hard to care for it."

Gregory felt suddenly that maybe he should have waited until he was older to get the answer to this question, like his mother kept on saying. He only really grasped about half of what Milfrey was telling him. The rest of it just didn't seem logical at all. He bit his lower lip and tried to sort out his thoughts. "…But my mum…my mum said that _I_ was a surprise…that I wasn't planned…and she still loves me and cares about me more than anybody else I know."

"Well, obviously, your mom doesn't feel cheated."

The blonde scratched his head irritably. "But why would you feel cheated? I mean…Mum says that a baby is the greatest gift a woman could ever ask for, whether or not they're planned, because if you have a baby, then that means that God trusts you enough to love it and care for it."

"Maybe your friend's mom doesn't _believe_ in God."

Gregory felt something cut at his heart when Mr. Milfrey said these words. His mouth gaped, and he stared at the gray-haired man, horror-struck. "No!" he breathed, unsure exactly what to do. Denying God's existence was definitely _not_ a good thing to do…but how to react to such a thing? "No, she…she's not allowed to _do_ that! I…I mean…_cun_ she do that? Wouldn't she go to Hell?"

Milfrey shrugged. "I don't know. But some people just don't believe in God. I really think you should talk to your mom about that, though.…" The Brit tried to gather his bearings, and he succeeded, although he still felt a little queasy once he had done so. Milfrey smiled weakly at him, and the doors of the cafeteria burst open, letting in a steady stream of rowdy eight-year-olds. The counselor's face fell a little at the sight of the other children. "Look, Gregory…I've got to talk to the second-years, now…but we can talk more about this on Saturday, all right?"

The blonde looked very dissatisfied about this for a moment, but then he sighed and nodded, getting slowly up from the table again. "…All right, Mr. Milfrey."

"Go and take a shower now, kid. I'll talk to you this weekend. I promise."

Gregory walked out of the cafeteria past a few straggling second-years, clambering down the steps unhappily and dragging his boots through the dirt. The sun had long since set, the sky now decorated with the distant sprinklings of stars and other planets, but he wasn't in the mood to enjoy it. He stopped by Cabin H and grabbed the pants that he had been sleeping in for the past week, along with a fresh pair of underwear, before he wandered over to the showers and found his usual stall. He locked himself inside and got undressed, kneeling down for a second and glancing under the wooden wall to his right. He saw a pair of familiar, gnarled feet, dripping and surrounded by the water from the neighboring showerhead. Gregory sighed and stood up, turning the knobs on the wall and shivering as cold water poured over his aching body.

The Mole would forgive him for this. Gregory knew that he would. He _had_ to. They were best friends, and all he was trying to do was help. Surely Mole saw that…or he _would_ see that, eventually. For now, Gregory knew that he had just triggered another molt, on The Mole's part, and all he could do until it was over was wait it out and pray for the both of them. God had helped once before; surely He could help again.

Gregory looked up through the open roof of his shower stall and stared at the stars, wishing.

* * *

The Mole did not speak to Gregory at all on Friday. He refused to stand alongside him while the first-years endured Moustache's long, drawling lecture on desert survival, and he instead talked rapidly and openly to the other boys, moving intentionally away from the blonde whenever he came near the group. The boys who had previously stared enviously at Gregory were now laughing at him and whispering about him behind his back, and Mole did nothing to stop them. 

But it was just a phase, Gregory told himself. It would pass. Things would get better between them, just like they always did.

Saturday came, and Mole went into the rec room with the other boys, leaving Gregory alone in the Cabin with his books and nothing else. And as much as Gregory adored reading, for some reason, he grew impatient, sitting there and reading without The Mole staring at him as he did so. He put his book back on the shelf and stormed out of the Cabin, making his way confidently over to the rec room.

The rec room was actually more of a rec _Cabin_; an entire building devoted to foosball and pool tables and television sets with the most primitive form of cable; to board games and stereos and CDs and Gameboy Colors. Gregory navigated his way around groups of older boys, doing his best not to make eye contact as he searched for Mole. He found him huddled on a ratty, mustard-colored sofa with a few other boys, staring intently at the TV as Scooby Doo solved a mystery. Gregory heaved a sigh of relief. He and The Mole had always watched Scooby Doo together, before…certainly he would be allowed back into the circle, now. He approached the couch and opened his mouth to announce himself when Mole laughed at something.

"Of course not," he said thickly, and Gregory felt some kind of repellant in these words that made him want to back up as fast as he could and get away before the rest of the words reached his ears. But he was too slow to react. "Gregory eez not really my friend. What, are you _crazy?_ 'E eez just a big baby 'oo always needs someone zer to 'old 'is 'and. I promised 'is muzar I would take care of 'im for 'er, so zat's what I've been doing. I would _never_ be friends with a pussy like _zat._"

…The world warped around Gregory for the fourth time in the past two weeks, the sounds and colors bleeding and blending into awful things that no one could ever have explained properly. He stumbled backward and his mouth cracked open, as if he had just been hit in the stomach with a spiked bowling ball. He fell back into an older boy who shouted some indiscernible expletive at him, and the boy's friends laughed as Gregory turned on his heel and ran from the rec room, tears streaming down his face.

His boots hammered down on the dirt and he flew past the showers, the administrations office, all of the school buses…he ran and cried and, for the first time in his life, he hated everything. He hated The Mole, hated that he lied, hated that nothing was ever good enough for him. All he had ever done was attempt to _be there_ for him. Why did Mole always have to push him away? _Always?_ He had to slow his pace when breathing became too hard, and when he stopped and turned around, the cluster of Cabins was small enough to fit in the palm of his hand, like a little model of buildings in a snow globe. He remembered The Mole's snow globe universe and tore at the tears on his face, huffing and sniffling and shaking all over.

"…_B-BUGGER!_" Gregory shrieked, burying his eyes in his tiny hands. "_FUCKING SHIT GOD**DAMN**IT!_" He sobbed into his palms, confused, devastated. What was he supposed to do _now?_ If Mole didn't care about him anymore…he didn't have anyone left. Not _here_, anyway. There was no way that he would survive the next two weeks on his own. The Mole had promised him…he had _promised_…that if things got too hard, he would help Gregory out. Well, things were bloody hard, _now!_ And where was Mole? Sitting on a raggedy yellow couch, watching _their show_, and telling everyone that he had never really liked Gregory at all.

Was it all a lie, then? All of the tears and the closeness and the kisses and the gentle whispered "I love you"s? All just some clever ploy to make Gregory lose himself in the delusion that he _wasn't_ worthless, when really, he _was?_ The blonde pulled his hands away from his face and hugged himself because no one else would, choking pitifully on his own sobs. He wished the Academy would catch fire. He wished that The Mole would just _die_. He wanted Christophe back. Because Christophe truly _had_ loved him.

"Aww…look at this. What have we here?"

The Brit jerked around, and a hard hand shoved him squarely in the chest, giving him no time whatsoever to react. He cried out in alarm and tripped backward, landing in the arms of another boy. Laughter surrounded him. _Oh, God,_ he thought through his tears, struggling to see them all. _There are six of them. Where did they come from…?_ He was tossed from one boy to the next, like a rag doll, limp and helpless in their hands.

"It's a little pussy first-year bitch," that same voice growled, and Gregory realized that the boy must have been at least fourteen; that made him an eighth-year. "What'samatter? You miss your _mommy?_ Huh? Faggot?" Gregory screwed up his face and saw that the others were around eleven or twelve; fifth- and sixth-years. Why were they picking on him? He hadn't done anything to make them mad…_had_ he? None of them looked familiar…

He was suddenly pushed out of the circle of boys, and he stood rigid for a moment, beguiled. He turned around and stared at their sneering faces with his streaming eyes, almost asking what the bloody hell they expected him to do, now. A sixth-year laughed at him. "Run, bitch. We wanna catch you," he growled, and the blue eyes widened in innocent fear, making the older boys snort with laughter. Gregory glanced around for some target to reach for, and his eyes found the crater, off on the horizon. _They might've left a shovel there_, he thought quickly. He could use that as a weapon. Gathering himself, he clenched his fists and broke into a sprint, not giving them the satisfaction of hearing him scream for help as he fled. He could hear them running behind him; hooting and hollering wildly in insane glee as they followed him toward the hole. Gregory ran as fast as his short little legs could carry him (which was actually quite fast, for a seven-year-old) and soon he could see the hole he had helped to dig. He looked over his shoulder to see how far ahead he was…

…And he tripped over his own feet and fell into the hole.

He landed, much to his surprise, in an inch-thick layer of mud at the bottom of the rather deep hole. He lie there for a moment, in complete shock, immobile, until he heard the older boys screeching up on the rim of the crater. He struggled to his feet, dripping with mud, and when he put pressure on his left foot, his ankle immediately gave way, and he fell flat on his face again. The other boys laughed cruelly at him, the eighth-year taking his place at the head of the pack. Gregory saw dirty boots in front of him.

"Well that was fun," the teenager snorted. "You run like a girl, stupid fucking first-year."

The others snickered, and the eighth-year kicked him hard in the stomach, knocking the wind out of him and reducing him to a feeble coughing fit there beneath them. He squeezed his pouring eyes shut and cringed in the mud, wrapping his arms around his belly and choking on air. The boy had kicked him so hard that he could feel his kidneys throbbing.

A fifth-year giggled. "Aww, look at him! He can take more than _that._ He's not a _complete_ waste of our time."

"Good," the eighth-year replied coldly.

Gregory felt a barrage of boots to his tiny, helpless body, and this time he couldn't hold his screams inside. They all laughed at him, sobbing, squirming in the mud, grabbing at nothing on the ground. His ankle seared with pain, but still they kicked at him, the eighth-year leader of the group laughing longest and hardest of all. To Gregory, that eighth-year was an embodiment of everything he had feared a few minutes ago; that The Mole had been lying, that no one really cared, that things would be better if he just died. The fourteen-year-old snorted and spit in Gregory's face, making the other boys shriek with hysterical laughter. Gregory whimpered and sobbed out the first name that came to mind:

"…Kuh-Christophe…"

And as if by magic, The Mole's hard little fist collided with the eighth-year's face.

"_FUCKING** BASTARDS!**_" the French boy screamed, firing a barrage of punches at the older boy's face and landing each and every one. Blood spurted from the teenager's nose as the other boys only looked on, in shock. One eventually stepped forward and leapt at Mole, latching himself around the brunette's neck. Mole shrieked and sank his sharp teeth into his attacker's arm, making the boy cry out in pain and release him. Mole kicked him swiftly in the ass and drove his nose into the dirt. Sensing the threat that the remainder of the gang posed, he tore his shovel out of his baldric and wielded it in front of himself like a sword at the other boys. The eighth-year nursed his bleeding nose and stared up at Mole, in complete shock. The fifth- and sixth-years backed up a few steps and glared at Mole, looking now as if they were cursing the fact that they didn't have weapons of any kind on them. The sixth-year on the ground was groaning and grabbing at his backside. "_STAY **BACK**, YOU MUZARFUCKARS! I...I'LL FUCKING KEEL YOU, YOU SHEETS! FUCKING **BEETCHES!**_"

"Man, what the fuck's your _problem?_" a fifth-year demanded, though his face reflected obvious fear. At this point, none of the boys other than Gregory seemed to recall the fact that Mole was a mere pussy first-year bitch. "We was just fuckin' around!"

Mole fake-lunged at the group of boys, and they all jumped back three feet. "_...GO!_" he ordered, gripping his shovel with one hand and swinging it around in a semi-circle. "_GET ZE FUCK OUT OF 'EAR!_"

They turned and ran, gladly. The eighth-year scrambled to his feet and grabbed the sixth-year, who limped and whined as his elder turned back around and glared at Mole, oozing crimson. "Fuck you, man," he spat, wiping his nose and wincing against the pain. "I'll fuckin' get you for this. Don't think I'm afraid of you. I got no problem with kicking a little French pansy in the balls."

Mole snorted and spat at the fourteen-year-old, making him jump to the side to avoid it. The older boy looked at the French boy with scorching hot rage in his eyes for a second more before he turned around and ran back toward the Academy with his younger friend.

Mole turned on his righteous heel and knelt down beside Gregory, clutching at his shaking hand to offer him comfort. "…Gregory," he asked, "Gregory…are you all right…?"

The blonde sobbed weakly, and the brunette leaned farther down, reaching forward tentatively and brushing dirty hair out of Gregory's face. The British boy struggled to nod, wanting to be strong. That was, after all, what he was here to learn. And now Mole was looking at him again, speaking to him…? He couldn't lose that again. The Mole frowned angrily, grinding his teeth, and Gregory felt strong hands helping him back up to his feet. He cried out against the pain in his ankle, and Mole slung his friend's arm over his shoulder without question, beginning to lead him to the first aid Cabin.

"…You definitely 'ave a sprain…zo' eet eez mild," he murmured after a few moments of consideration, growling something crude in French under his breath. "Fucking bastards…you'll be een ze eenfirmary all _week_ with zees."

"I…I'm f-fine, Mole…ruh-r-really, I…I just t-twisted my ankle a little—"

"'_Ush._ I will not let zem get away with zees, Gregory. I will not let you allow zem to walk all over you. You are far too good for zat."

Gregory blushed from flattery through his tears and shame, choking and leaning into Mole to avoid putting his weight on his left side. He neglected to mention that it had only been fifteen minutes ago that The Mole had proclaimed that Gregory was a big pussy baby and that the two of them had never _really_ been friends. But the brunette walked slowly, helping him along like only a real friend would, watching Gregory's face carefully for any signs of pain. He grunted in aggravation.

"Why were zey even attacking you like zat, anyway?" he asked softly, pausing for a moment when his friend accidentally put pressure on his injured foot and hissed in pain. Gregory grasped Mole's shirt with dirty, shaking fingers as he looked away from the French boy, still red-faced.

"…I…I h-heard them talking about you," Gregory lied quietly, embarrassed. He knew what The Mole must have been thinking about that: _Why do _you_ care about me? You were tearing me apart in therapy the other day._ But he himself was still marveling at the fact that Mole had saved him not twenty minutes after announcing his dislike of him. "They were…saying awful things. I didn't think they deserved to get away with it."

"Well…zey didn't," Mole responded, chuckling warmly. Gregory felt the heat in his face flow through the rest of his body, and he leaned over and nudged his forehead against his best friend's cheek affectionately, to show that he had heard the implied forgiveness. The Mole smiled into the muddy golden curls. "Gregory…you are a terrible liar. I saw you run eento zat older boy een ze rec room…I saw you run out, zat eez 'ow I knew to come and find you. I realize zat you must 'ave 'eard what I said about you…and…I just want you to know zat I didn't really mean eet, _mon chéri._ I…I was angry with you…for telling Milfrey about my muzar. I am sorry zat I lied. I am sorry zat I 'urt your feelings."

…Gregory sighed softly, loving the sound of those words, his injured heart carefully mending itself with Mole's gentle, sincere tone. He smiled bashfully and felt lips pressing into his scraped forehead, as tender and caring as his own mother's kiss was whenever he scraped his knee or bumped his head. But he felt a little sick, now, for some reason, when The Mole kissed him. A _good_ kind of sick that told him that the gesture was both enjoyed and appreciated by his tender heart. He leaned up and kissed Mole back, and the French boy grinned awkwardly and laughed.

"…You really _are_ a baby, Gregory. I always 'ave to look out for you."

"You don't _have_ to," Gregory mumbled shyly, as they reached the first-aid Cabin. Mole knocked on the door, and the nurse (a short, skinny woman with large red lips and tiny black eyes) stared at them in disgust when she saw that they were covered in mud.

"Can I help you boys?" she asked in a nasally voice. Christophe handed Gregory dutifully over to her.

"Zees boy 'as sprained 'is ankle," he said loudly. The woman's face immediately filled with concern, and she helped Gregory over to a cot, whispering motherly reassurances to him. Mole was about to follow when a gloved hand reached out and closed the door in his face.

The brunette whirled around with his fists up, ready for battle with an angry glint in his eyes. But instead of being faced with the pissed-off eighth-year, he was met with the puzzled face of a boy he had seen many times before. He lowered his fists, but kept the angry glint. _This_ boy had gotten on his bad side before, too.

"…What do _you_ want?" he spat.

"Hey, Mole," the dark-skinned boy said casually, his eyebrows furrowed. "Man, I saw what you did to those guys back there."

"So?" The Mole hissed, looking emotionlessly at the older boy, his eyes like two green icicles stabbing at the boy's spine. His adversary's brown eyes sparkled mischievously.

"So that was some hardcore shit, man, and I wanted to know if you'd be interested in coming to hang out with my crew sometime." He grinned, showing off-white teeth. His smile was lop-sided. "You spend almost all of your time with that nerdy blonde kid. Why not chill with some guys who're actually _in_ _your league?_"

Mole's eyes narrowed into dangerous slits. "…What ze fuck does zat mean? Gregory eez my best friend, I cannot just—"

The dark boy laughed and cut him off, slinging his arm around the brunette's shoulders. "Dude. You're kidding me. I've seen the way you treat him. It's all _you_, man, strutting around here like you _own_ the place, with him tagging along for the ride like some little _girl._ And I'll bet that the only reason that you even _let_ him follow you around is…let me guess…because he's a friend of the family?"

Mole jerked away, his upper lip pulled back into a snarl. "I '_let 'im follow me around_' because 'e eez my _friend_, you dick! Friends stick by each ozar! Friends protect each ozar!"

"Heh. So that's why you were pretty much _ignoring_ him until today?" the other boy asked. The Mole's snarl faltered. "Is he your _bitch?_ Is that it? Only _you're_ allowed to kick his ass and talk shit about him?" He held his hands up innocently. "All right. That's cool, too, dude. But still…all I'm saying is that _we_…meaning my friends and myself…we are more _your crowd_, Mole. We're the big, important people that you _want_ to be involved with. Not like little Goober or whatever."

The brunette growled something under his breath that the dark-skinned boy couldn't understand before he muttered, "and 'ow are _you_ more important zan ze ozars? You do ze same drills, you eat ze same sheet for every meal. 'Ow are _you_ special?"

The dark boy grinned crookedly again and grabbed Mole's muddy, gloved hand, slapping something into it. When the French boy looked down at what he had been given, he blinked twice, a blank look on his face. A brand-new package of Camel cigarettes. The older boy snickered triumphantly as The Mole's eyes gleamed and he closed his fist around the box.

"…My name is Rodney," the dark-skinned boy said. "And I'll _tell_ you why we're special. We're special because we've got the _smokes_ and the _porn_, man! And now, you're one of us." He turned around and began to walk off, calling over his shoulder, "I know you've seen us before. Sleep in your uniform and meet us by the showers at rise-and-shine. I'll make sure to save a good _Playboy_ just for you."

Mole stared at the back of that shaven head, watching as Rodney disappeared around the cafeteria. The box of cigarettes sat lifelessly in his trembling hand, emanating some kind of strange, welcoming warmth through his glove and into his skin, as if the tobacco inside were just begging to be burned. He tried to imagine what it must feel like to smoke a cigarette; to breathe in a thick cloud of smoke and then blow it out again, like a steam engine made of flesh and bone. To have something other than air inside of his lungs. Deep inside, he couldn't wait to try it.

_Inhaling fire._

He would have to wait until tomorrow, though. The Mole licked his chapped lips in anticipation and, sliding his prize tenderly into his pocket, he headed into the infirmary with no intention of telling his best friend what had just happened.


	7. Sinful Things

It's official: this is going to be the longest fanfiction I have ever written. The Microsoft Word file is already ninety-five pages long, and we're not even to BLU yet. _Hoo_ boy. We've got a long trek ahead of us. :P

Sorry this chapter's a wee bit shorter than usual. Also sorry it took a bit longer to get this chapter up; my horde is gone, now, so I don't think that I'll be able to update every Monday as I had originally planned…maybe every _other_ Monday, from now on…meh…

But still…

What madness will befall Gregory and Christophe with last chapter's turn of events? Well…read on, my dear friend, and you shall soon see.

* * *

**Chapter Seven**

Milfrey found Gregory in the first-aid Cabin that night, sitting up in bed and eating his dinner, chatting up a storm with the nurse. When the nurse saw the guidance counselor step into the Cabin, she immediately looked relieved, as if she were quite glad to be spared more of Gregory's nonsensical bantering. Milfrey smiled weakly at her and took her place at Gregory's bedside, staring in dismay at the boy's bandaged foot for a moment before looking up into his face, instead. The blonde boy beamed at him.

"Good evening, Mr. Milfrey."

"Yes, yes…good evenin', Gregory," the counselor said gently, his mouth still pulled down into a careful, calculating frown. Gregory opened his mouth to speak again, but Milfrey raised a single hand, cutting him off. "…Before we talk about what I came here to talk to you about…would you mind tellin' me why you're in here in the first place?"

Gregory's grin faltered, and a faint flash of pink spilled over his full cheeks and nose. He looked down at his nearly-empty tray of food and seemed as if he were having a hard time getting over some obstacle within himself. "…I…some older boys. They chased me down and I fell, and they beat me up. That's all. I suppose it's just their way of initiating me into the camp. After all, it is my first year…"

Milfrey sighed. "…N-no, Gregory…they were just bein' little shits, that's all. I'll find out who did this and then Rufus'n I'll take care of them, all right? They can't get away with doin' things like this here. Your mother trusts us to protect you, and we're gonna do the best we can to keep you safe while you're with us."

The British boy's eyes narrowed slightly, and he refused to make contact with Milfrey's gaze again for a few minutes. "…I don't need _you_ to protect me," he said quietly, and for possibly the first time ever, a wave of darkness found itself passing over Gregory Thorne's face. Mr. Milfrey pulled back slightly, confused and a bit put off by the sight of this innocent little boy gaining such a hellish air out of practically nowhere. The blonde curls spilled in front of the blue eyes. "…I have The Mole. I have my own strengths. I can handle things here myself."

Milfrey refused to look away. "…You say that, Gregory, but believe me, you don't know what you really mean by it. Things can get awful tough around here, especially if me and the other counselors don't interfere with anythin' that happens. And if you ask me, Christophe Delorne doesn't exactly seem like the kind of kid who's always gonna have your back when you need him to be there for you."

At this, Gregory's head snapped up, his angry, slit eyes piercing through Milfrey's glasses. "…You don't know him like _I_ do. _No one_ does," Gregory hissed, and the moment he was done uttering these words, he pulled his face back down toward the floor beside him. His breathing was hard and strained, and Milfrey wondered for a split-second if the Brit was going to start crying. Realizing that now was probably not the best time to continue their discussion from earlier on in the week, he took Gregory's tray from him and began to walk casually away.

"…I can see that you don't really feel like talkin'," Milfrey said quietly, setting the tray on a table below one of the infirmary's few windows. "That's fine, too. We can talk more next weekend, then. Just so long as it's sometime before you head out." Gregory did not respond, even as Milfrey walked by him on his way to the door, and personally, the guidance counselor was quite okay with this; he didn't much feel like talking to a seven-year-old undergoing mood swings right now, anyway. Gregory fell back into his pillows and glared at the floor; Milfrey heard him mutter something unpleasant under his breath as he himself nodded to the nurse (who looked quite distraught), and he left the first-aid Cabin without another thought on the subject.

Gregory turned his eyes to the window and watched the purple, bruise-like sky, a sour flavor in his mouth that he couldn't quite describe. _Nobody knows The Mole like I do,_ he thought to himself, and to the nurse's relief, he decided that now would probably be a good time to go to sleep, even though he really wouldn't have to do anything strenuous for the next week or so. _No one will _ever_ know him in this way. No one else will ever have his love. Fuck Milfrey. Fuck this stupid camp. I don't need anyone but Mole._

He closed his eyes and a few moments later, the nurse turned the light off, leaving the main room in favor of her own on the side of the Cabin with one last uneasy glance toward Gregory's bed. Within minutes, Gregory had fallen into a deep, restful sleep, with no idea that soon, The Mole would break his heart yet again.

* * *

The Mole awoke to the sound of dying cats for the fourteenth time on his second Sunday at the Academy. The other boys let out their usual chorus of groans and indignant swear words, ambling slowly out of bed and pulling their uniforms on. Mole, however, swept out of bed and slid his boots on as quickly as he could, pounding his way out of the Cabin and slamming the door shut behind himself as he began his trek over to the shower stalls. 

There stood Rodney and his other, older friends, and the others looked a bit uneasy while Rodney told them something in hushed tones. Mole wondered, as he approached them, if Rodney was trying to convince them that The Mole was tough enough to be one of them. Rodney must have been their leader, Mole decided as he joined them by the showers and gave them all a devious smile. Still, the three of them looked uneasy at the sight of him; a tiny first-year, not even old enough to know what half of what they usually talked about really meant. Rodney was the only one who returned his smile.

"Hey, Mole, you made it. Great," he said coolly, and he clapped a hand on Mole's now muscle-toned shoulder, gesturing with this other hand for effect as he introduced his other friends. "This here's Aaron—" he pointed to a shorter, tubby boy with shaggy brown hair and a beard growing in beneath his pale chin, "—Dock—" a tall, skinny blonde boy with long hair, acne, and eerie, cold brown eyes, "—and Simon." Medium and stocky, with black hair in a bowl cut and an expression plastered to his face that made him look as if he were smelling something terribly rotten. Mole eyed them all with very fleeting interest before he pulled away from Rodney's hand and unsheathed his now unwrapped gift from the day before.

"I want to smoke," he growled, pulling one of the cigarettes out of the box and sticking it harshly into his mouth. The others' eyes twinkled, realizing that perhaps Mole would not be useless, after all, if he could be so easily corrupted. Dock pulled out a lighter as Rodney knelt down beside a small patch of sod (grown from the runoff of the showers, Mole surmised) and glanced around to make sure that no one was looking. Mole watched him pull the grass upward like a trapdoor, exposing a rather deep box-shaped hole that held a single shoebox. Rodney unearthed the shoebox and peeled the lid off, blowing the dirt off of its precious cargo. Mole's eyes flitted back to Dock, who had now managed to urge a flame out of his lighter and was lighting the tip of Mole's cigarette.

The Mole had seen people smoking before. He had seen beginners smoking; seen them try to breathe the smoke in too fast and wind up hacking their brains out. He could feel the older boys' eyes on him as he tensed his lips around the paper and drew the smoke into his mouth, carefully swallowing a little at a time. He felt his eyes start to water, his windpipe trying to force the smoke back up, and he breathed out too hard through his nose. He choked and spat out clouds of gray, like a dragon with hiccups, and Aaron and Simon laughed at him. He glared and wiped his eyes, turning away shamefully and trying again as Rodney began handing out magazines.

At this point, Mole could see the other boys making the slow, easy journey over to the cafeteria, scratching at their crotches and mumbling that it was too fucking early, as always. He had a feeling that he was going to miss breakfast, but for some reason, the cigarette between his lips—despite its rather unpleasant effects—and the boys behind him seemed a good enough excuse to skip the meal. He breathed in slow and let it out just as carefully through his nose, and it felt a little like he was cooking inside. He shuddered and Rodney dangled a magazine in front of his face, grinning as he did so.

"Here, Mole, this one's for you," the older boy said, and Mole took the magazine in his hands, biting down on the cigarette as he leaned back against the showers and stared at the picture on the cover. A half-naked woman. He had seen a lot of those before, he thought, and he flipped the booklet open, hoping he would be met with something more pleasant, but he was met instead with more obscene pictures. He wrinkled his nose and smoked and felt a bit sick to his stomach, looking at this. He had seen enough of this sort of thing in his younger days to last a lifetime.

When he had lived in New York, he remembered every day…before life on the streets…before Gregory and Mrs. Thorne's home-cooked meals…his mother had once had a job at a place where the women took their clothes off on a stage in front of men for money. Having nowhere else for him to go, Mole's mother had smuggled him into the club every night and made him wait for her in the back room. In the beginning, he had been able to fall asleep back there, hiding amongst the costumes and makeup…but after a while, men started coming back there and doing things with the women that had kept him awake. He had achieved a naturally tired, old, angry look over time, from months of watching adults—even his own _mother_—doing sinful things. He had never really been able to sleep properly since then; every time he was just dozing off, he would hear those sounds or see hands digging into flesh, and he would just lie there with his eyes open, hating everything about his life, hating God for putting him through it.

He hadn't told Gregory how he felt about the Lord, yet. He knew it would hurt him too much to hear it.

…Deeply irked by Rodney's magazine, Mole threw it back at him and puffed at his cigarette, even more annoyed when he realized that his Camel was gone. He snuffed it on the wooden floor of the showers, earning himself a look from Rodney and his friends when they realized he had just thrown away a porn magazine. The dark-skinned boy frowned down at him as he looked off at the faintly pink horizon.

"What's the matter, Mole?" Rodney asked quietly, and Mole caught a hint of amusement in his tone that made him feel sicker inside. "Not good enough for you in that one? That's okay. We've got better ones."

"I don't want to look at zat," Mole growled in somber response. A light breeze passed over them, and he felt the older boys exchanging wary glances behind him. He wondered why the hell he had thought this would be so great. It was nowhere near fun…although smoking, once he had gotten the hang of it, _had_ turned out to be almost as good as he had expected it to be.

"…Kid's weird," Aaron murmured, and Mole pretended not to hear. It wasn't worth getting pissed over stupid shits like these. _They're just like the others_, he thought, closing his eyes softly. _Just more arrogant. Fucking hell._ Rodney shot Aaron an irritated look and sat down beside the first-year, fixing him with an inquisitive gaze.

"…So you don't appreciate porn. That's fine. You've got a while to get into it," the black boy murmured. He was now smoking his own cigarette, and Mole's eyes followed the trail of smoke lazily over to Rodney's squashed, apelike face. "We do more out here than smoke and jack off, so don't you worry."

"Yeah," Simon chuckled. "We play patty-cake and fingerpaint, too."

"Shut up, Simon, you dickhead!" Dock hissed, and Mole glanced up at him. "This kid's tough shit. Didn't you hear what happened to Jeff and his crew yesterday?"

"Yeah, so?" Simon growled. Dock gestured blatantly toward The Mole, and the first-year smiled slyly as Simon's eyes widened and he immediately shut himself up. Rodney grinned crookedly down at Mole.

"We're all out here because we've all agreed on one thing, man, and this is it: once we're out of this hellhole, we're going to use everything that we've learned to become mercenaries. You know what that means?"

Mole grunted. "No. Geeve me another ceegarette."

Rodney laughed and obliged. "It means we're going to work as spies for secret government agencies and go on dangerous missions to gather information on enemy weapons and other awesome shit like that. Me and these idiots…we've only got two more years of this bullshit before we're done, and then only one more year after that before we're considered adults…and that's when the cash starts flowing in."

The Mole perked up and fixed Rodney with an interested gaze, his green eyes flashing as his second cigarette caught fire. He took a drag and coughed a little, furrowing his eyebrows at the older boy. "…You can actually get a well-paying job doing sings like zat?"

"Man, you can get a well-paying job looking for proof of _aliens_," Aaron said, then paused for a moment to take a drag on his Camel. "Of _course_ you can get a job doing that. You can get a job doing practically _anything_, if you look hard enough for people willing to hire you."

"Exactly," Rodney agreed, speaking in a quiet voice, now, as if unwelcome people were listening in on their conversation. "That's why you should pay attention to everything that goes on around here. Once you're a third-year, you'll learn how to shoot a rifle…that's _really_ important, so pay a lot of attention to that. Learn everything about survival and combat that they try to teach you, kid, and believe me, you'll go far. You've got a lot potential in this field…and now that you're with us, we can help you out even _more._"

Mole couldn't hide his flattery. He snickered and looked back over toward the cafeteria, then, where the doors were now locked and he could hear the faint sounds of breakfast taking place without them. Smoke curled around his head, and he reconsidered what he had been thinking earlier. These boys _were_ better than the others. Maybe they really _were_ more his "crowd" than Gregory was…

"So what do you say, Mole?" Dock asked quietly. "Are you interested?"

The Mole grinned and pressed his cigarette to his lips again. "Of course I am."

* * *

It got very boring in the first-aid Cabin very quickly without someone _willing_ there to talk to, as Gregory soon discovered. He tried to busy himself by naming colors and sleeping and singing all the songs he knew (even the ones he hated), but time seemed to go slower and slower as the day dragged on. He found himself wishing for a book or two, or perhaps even a newspaper, and he began to notice little things about the room he was in that became very irritating, after a bit. For instance, there was a cobweb hanging in front of the air conditioning vent that quivered and danced whenever the air blew through it; there was a rather pronounced crack in that floorboard; a chip in the paint that had been slathered quite carelessly onto that end table. His fingers itched and longed for a distraction of any kind. 

He watched the other nurse (who was a bit younger but still very close to the age of the woman who had answered the door and chatted with him reluctantly the day before) for a bit, filing paperwork for a few minutes and then leaning back in her swivel chair, pulling from her pocket—lo and behold—a Gameboy. Gregory's blue eyes widened and he felt his brain begin babbling at him to ask the woman for the toy. She, as if sensing his brainwaves, looked up at him, and must have read the yearning in his face, because then she sighed and smiled weakly at him, getting up and walking over to his bed.

"…I only brought one game," she said as she handed the green Gameboy to him. "This is my son's, actually…but I know you'll get more use out of it than I do around here. Usually I have Anne Rice to keep me company, but not this year."

"I'm sorry," Gregory murmured, hesitating for a moment to look up at her and smile in gratitude. "But there's a whole shelf full of books in Cabin H…maybe you could find something worthwhile over there?"

"Hah," the nurse said, shaking her head. Then she stopped and gave him a quizzical look. "…You like reading, Gregory?"

"Oh, more than anything!" the blonde responded wholeheartedly.

"What's your favorite kind of book?"

"Well, I'm quite fond of historical fiction novels…though mysteries and short fantasies leaning more toward reality and explaining human nature have proven to be rather enthralling, as well. I'm into Roald Dahl at the moment, more than anyone else, and I'm probably going to be getting started on George Orwell's _Animal Farm_ sometime soon…"

The nurse laughed at these words, and Gregory saw her smile genuinely at him. She reminded him a bit of a grandmother; someone who would always wear tacky lipstick and smelly perfume, and bake banana bread muffins for you whenever you wanted them. He wondered if she had any children. "Once you start talking, it's really very hard to believe that you're only seven, Mr. Thorne."

Gregory beamed at her and turned the Gameboy on, his face flushed distantly from flattery. "Well, I'm nearly eight…perhaps you're just hearing a bit of that _older me._"

She laughed some more and then she sighed, patting his head before she headed back to her desk and allowed his attention to be drawn toward the screen of the mini Nintendo.

The game that she had was an ancient form of Tetris, which Gregory—normally appalled by the mere _thought_ of video games—easily lost himself in. Tetris was not like those stupid RPGs or side-scrollers; Tetris was a game of calculation and skill, and Gregory found himself smiling even after just a short while of tapping away at the machine. The nurse watched him from her desk, where she was doodling half-consciously on a memo pad.

Time flew by when it was filled with twitching, multicolored puzzle pieces. Before Gregory realized what was happening, the nurse had presented him with his lunch; a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, a glass of milk, and a few graham crackers. He stared at the food before him for a moment before he looked up at her, and she gave him a bit of a look. "You've been playing that game for nearly two hours," she told him, making his eyes widen in surprise. She took the device from his hands and pointed to the sandwich on the tray in his lap. "Here. Eat that, and I'm sure your little friend Christophe will be in soon to say hi. Sidney left a note here that said to expect him before she went off with the older boys on their camping trip…"

"…Oh," Gregory murmured, a bit ashamed that he had been so caught up in Tetris that he had completely forgotten about The Mole's promise to visit him again that day. "Right…um…thanks," he said, smiling sheepishly at the nurse. She nodded at him and walked once more back over to her desk, leaving him with his food.

He ate his sandwich slowly, both to preoccupy himself while he waited for that oddly familiar knock at the door, and because he much preferred chunky peanut butter over the creamy alternate in this sandwich. Plus, Mole was quite fond of graham crackers, so it wouldn't do Gregory any harm to save his friend one or two of them. He peeled the crust off of his bread and chewed thoughtfully with each bite, eventually realizing that he had been staring at the door the whole time, waiting.

And finally, it came. Three fast knocks and then a pause before an isolated one. Gregory found himself wondering how he had memorized The Mole's knock, having only heard it one time. He supposed it was, for whatever reason, like a song that gets stuck in your head; you never forget it once you hear it. Though the knock was much less annoying than a pop song. The nurse flashed a smile at him and walked to the door, pulling it open and giving Gregory a view of that lovely mop of shaggy brown hair. He bit at his lower lip and looked at his sandwich.

"'Ow eez Gregory today?" Mole asked, standing on his toes and peering around the nurse. She stepped out of his way and gestured for him to come inside, and he did so rather quickly, almost pushing her further out of his path. She stared at him bemusedly for a second before she shook her head and closed the door, instead. Mole knelt at Gregory's bedside and folded his hands over the blonde's sheets, fixing his friend with an appraising gaze.

"'Ello, Christophe," Gregory said quietly. He found the graham crackers and handed them to his friend, whose eyes sparkled as he took them. He smiled up at the Brit and shoved one in his mouth before he remembered what he had come to tell Gregory. First order of business, though, was: _is Gregory feeling all right today?_

"'Ow eez your ankle doing today?" the French boy inquired, glancing down the bed where Gregory's feet made lumps in the sheets. The blonde shrugged.

"S'been better, I suppose," he replied weakly. "The nurse says that it should be better by Wednesday, so…yes. I won't be left out of the '_fun'_ this week, after all." The Mole's eyebrows furrowed and he looked back up into Gregoy's face, catching that hint of weakness in his tone.

"…Are you feeling okay?" he murmured. "You sound…eh…'ow you say…like you are 'aving a 'ard time speaking."

"No, Mole, I'm all right…just a little tired," Gregory said, making a bigger smile for his friend. The brunette looked only half-convinced, but nodded, anyway. Gregory could smell something weird on his best friend's breath; it stank, strangely familiar, and it made him want to gag. "How are _you_ today?"

"Eh." Mole shrugged. "I 'ad a stomach ache earlier, but eet went away. I sink eet eez because zey served us _cabbage_ for lunch. Do you believe zat? And you get a peanut butter sandweech! I fucking _'ate_ cabbage."

_Yes, I suppose you did_, Gregory thought absently, horrified a few moments later by how cruel that thought was. He flustered himself and stared at the glass of milk, sitting half-drained on his lunch tray, and he guiltily handed the other graham cracker to The Mole, who accepted it gleefully and spent a few seconds eating it before he started talking again. "…Wilma 'as told us zat we will be running drills een somesing zat she calls 'ze field' zees week. I 'ave a feeling zat she just wants us to run around until we are too tired to annoy 'er during deenar, which really doesn't bozer me…I like zose ozar boys better when zey are quiet, too, anyway. Reduces my urge to whack zem with my shovel."

The blonde managed to giggle a little at this, and the two friends met gazes and smiled at each other. Like always, Gregory felt warm inside when he saw Mole smiling, but today he thought he felt something else, as well. Something he couldn't place, just yet…but he liked it, nonetheless. He sighed. "And we get to go _home_ next Sunday!" he reminded the French boy. "I cunnot wait to taste Mum's food again and sleep in my own bed after so long."

Mole chuckled, though it was more to himself than anything else. "Come now, Gregory…eet 'as not been _zat_ bad een zees place."

A second of silence. "…Excuse me," Gregory mumbled darkly, gesturing to the room they were sitting in, and then there was an awkward, very uncomfortable pause between the two of them, during which a bit of fire found its way into The Mole's eyes and curved his mouth down into a distasteful frown.

"Well, _I_ 'ave made _friends_ een your absence, _mon chéri_," he growled, shaking his head. "And I don't care eef you deesapprove; I like zem, and I am going to stay friends with zem."

"Fine," Gregory said, hurt but successfully hiding it. "Just tell me…who are they?"

The green eyes sparkled and averted from Gregory's face, and he could immediately tell that he would not like the answer to that question. Some small part of him regretted asking. "Zose boys zat stand by ze showers een ze morning. Ze smokers. Zey are…eh…razur _eenteresting_."

Gregory felt his heart sink into his stomach. _Oh, Lord_, he thought, struggling to keep his eyes level with Mole's. _Then that smell…cigarettes? He's been smoking?_ He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from saying anything that might offend his friend, and The Mole's gaze stayed unfaltering upon his face, waiting for the nagging words that usually followed a confession as serious as this. But the words didn't come. And Mole smiled in a rude way at his younger friend. "Ah, what? You are…surprised? Jealous? Tell me, what feelings make you react een zees way, Gregory?"

The blonde shuddered. He didn't want to say it, but he had to, now. Mole had asked. Mole had _provoked_ him. He sighed and lowered his eyebrows, knowing full well that what he was about to say would probably mean The Mole would not speak a single word to him for the rest of the week. "…I am…disappointed, Mole."

The French boy's face fell and his expression immediately darkened, unsatisfied with this answer. "And why eez zees? You sink zey are too _good_ for me?" Obviously he had been thinking about Gregory reacting this way.

"No, I…I didn't say that…" Gregory suddenly felt very tired inside. "I…if anything…_you're_ too good for _them._ You don't need to smoke, Mole. You _shouldn't_ smoke. Don't you know what it does to your body?"

"Pfah!" Mole spat irritably, getting up from his spot on the floor. The Brit wished that he wouldn't leave—that he weren't so hotheaded—but there wasn't really much that he could do about it in his current position. He stared up at his oldest friend, trying to ask him to calm down with his expression alone. But Mole seemed unable to process any emotions but his own, at the moment. "I sink you _are_ jealous, Gregory! You are just jealous because you want to be _cool_, and you are too much of a nerd to evar be popular! You just cannot _evar_ be 'appy for me, _can_ you?"

A brief pause between them, and the air conditioning turned on and set the spider web in motion. "…Fine, Mole," Gregory murmured sadly, lowering his eyes back down to his milk. "You just think that about me."

_You shallow bastard._

The Mole opened his mouth again to say something else, but God appeared to be on Gregory's side, at the moment; the brunette was struck with a violent coughing fit, and both boys knew it was from the cigarettes more than anything else. Gregory saw, in the glimpse that he took upward toward The Mole's eyes, a slight flash of something that he spitefully hoped was shame before the French boy turned around and stormed, outraged, to the door of the clinic, pounding his chest violently with his fist as he went. The door slammed loudly shut behind him, and Gregory leaned his head solemnly back into his pillows, wondering when their stupid game of push-and-pull would finally come to an end.


	8. Too Soon

FINALLY. With this chapter, year one is _over._ (happy dance) :D

Over 100 pages in the Word file! (gasp) This calls for a celebration, I say! CHAPTER EIGHT! For some reason I think this chapter is lacking something. It's definitely not my best, I'll say that much about it…but things get much more complicated next chapter, so _yay._

* * *

**Chapter Eight**

On Tuesday night, Gregory was moved back into Cabin H, where he slept in his old bed facing away from a still-angry Mole (who had not come to visit him on Monday or on that Tuesday during lunch). On Wednesday, Gregory woke up with the other campers and got dressed with a dull stiffness in his ankle, and the nook between his and Mole's beds was completely devoid of the French boy. Gregory scowled to himself and mussed his own hair, tying his boots and stomping out of the Cabin with clenched fists. He had never felt so indignant before in his life. What the hell was The Mole trying to pull?

He stopped and breathed in the morning air, staring over at the showers where Mole was leaning against the wooden panels with a Camel held carefully in his mouth, his head tilted at a rather vulnerable angle as he listened to that older, African-American boy talk. They laughed together at something, and Gregory felt the rage swelling within him, his upper lip curling back in disgust. For some reason, the way that Mole's neck was tilted made Gregory think that those boys would not hesitate to run the blade of a knife over the skin and spill all the blood in his French veins. Mole was being played for a fool by those older boys, Gregory thought to himself coldly, and he was too blind to see it. Gregory marched bravely over to the showers, fueled by some invisible force that perhaps wanted to keep his friend's neck intact, and sat down beside The Mole.

All boys present immediately stopped what they were doing and stared at him. A pale boy with a beard scowled furiously at him after the initial shock of being intruded on wore off. "What the fuck do you think you're doing here, asswipe?" he growled. "This is _our_ turf, you little shit!" Mole said nothing, did nothing to show that he was in any way adversely affected by these words. Gregory kept his poker face and returned the glare as best he could. It registered, ever so distantly in his mind, that perhaps he _had_ learned something here at the Academy; how to be angry and opinionated at the same time. How to get over a bit of his fears, if nothing else.

"I'm sitting with my friend, you Neanderthal," he spat back. This time, Mole's stormy green eyes flashed dangerously. Their gazes met, and Gregory stared intently into the dirty face of his best friend. The Mole's chin trembled slightly, his nostrils flaring as he breathed hard out of them. His hair was so long that it hung in front of his eyes in natural, spiky sections.

"…Go away and eat your breakfast. Eet eez for your own good zat you listen to me," Mole murmured, turning back toward the dark-skinned boy. The blonde sat frozen for a moment, in disbelief, and he just stared at the back of the French boy's head for what felt like hours. The Mole would not look back at him. He narrowed his blue eyes into slits and felt the tears threatening at the base of his throat.

Bugger…don't cry, Gregory, you cun do this without crying… 

"…Fine, Mole," he leaned forward and breathed into the mousy ear, trying to sound vicious but only half-succeeding. "…I'm not good enough for you, then. That's it, isn't it?"

A long, uncomfortable pause. With each second that passed, Gregory's anger began to subside and replace itself with common sense, and he began to realize that these older boys would probably not hesitate to kick the shit out of him. They would do it just as those other boys had done on Saturday…only this time, Mole would most likely not step in and save him. The brunette took a long, sinful drag on his cigarette and breathed the smoke out, long and hard, into the air before him. He did not meet Gregory's gaze again as he sighed.

"…Go and eat breakfast, Gregory," he hissed. Gregory's pale, gloved fingers clenched into a fist, and he—for the first time in his life, with his teeth digging painfully into his lower lip—punched The Mole in the jaw.

He punched quite hard, too. The brunette let out a yelp of surprise and fell over into Rodney, and Gregory sniffed loudly before getting to his feet and marching quickly away. He paused for a moment once he was a few feet away and turned to face his friend, his face screwed up in rage.

"You are so full of _sh-shit_, Christophe. And y-you _know_ it, _don't_ you?" he asked, so quietly that only the brunette heard it. The Brit then turned on his heel without an answer and stomped out of the boys' line of sight. Rodney pushed Mole, who was now nursing his jaw with his head bowed, back up into a sitting position and gave him a confused look.

"What the hell was _that_, man?" the older boy asked, trying to find Mole's eyes. The French boy turned his face away and shook his head.

"…Nuhsing…'e…'e eez just angry with me…"

"No, I mean…you're just going to let him _get away_ with slugging you?"

"…"

Gregory's pace gradually slowed, and his fingers closed around the fabric of his shirt above his stomach as he blinked away tears. He walked past the closed doors of the cafeteria, dragging his feet over to the first-aid Cabin, and he knocked on the door with a trembling fist. The nurse opened the door and gave him a confused look, asking him if his ankle was still bothering him.

He opened his mouth and promptly threw up all over the front of her clean white uniform.

* * *

Mole knew that Gregory was right. He would never say it out loud, of course; he wasn't the kind of person to admit that bad things about him were true. But he went through Wednesday thinking only about what Gregory had said to him that morning, hardly noticing the fact that the drills they were doing got more and more strenuous as the hours dragged on. He did the stretching and the sprinting and the obstacle course almost without blinking, and Wilma seemed more furious at him for this reason than anything else. He was supposed to be in _pain_, damnit. 

Gregory joined the other boys in the field after lunch, looking very pale and sickly but doing the drills, anyway. He did them very slowly, but worked through all of them, about two minutes behind The Mole all the way. The French boy felt those melancholy blue eyes on him all through the afternoon, and his teeth ground against the inside of his cheek when he tried to will the gaze away. It did not leave him, and his cheek was raw by dinnertime. As they headed back for the cafeteria, Mole gave Gregory a pained look, and Gregory looked back, in just as much pain. Neither of them really understood that the only reason why they were hurting inside was because they were both quite sorry for fighting with one another that morning.

They needed each other. They just didn't realize it, yet.

They both sang The Anthem without much enthusiasm and sat in their usual seats all during dinner, which surprised the Brit; the other boys had said that usually, Mole would skip the second half of the meal and go outside to have a cigarette. But tonight, the brunette stayed, and they both ate their Salisbury steak and broccoli in complete silence for most of the meal. Gregory poked at his vegetables with his fork and sighed quietly on occasion, leaning his chin against the heel of his hand, not quite sure as to exactly what he was waiting for. Once he realized he didn't plan on eating any more food, he chanced a glimpse over at his brown-haired friend. Mole looked over at exactly the same time, and they simply stared at one another for a few moments. Then Gregory's chin trembled, and The Mole's lips separated.

…_I'm sorry_, he mouthed, and, Gregory believed, he truly _looked_ it. He smiled weakly at his French friend to show that the apology was accepted, and he put his fork down in favor of placing his palm carefully over Mole's knuckles on the bench beside him. Mole sighed in relief, and the two of them left the cafeteria together, neither of them casting a second glance over toward the showers, where the older boys were watching them in awed disgust. Once they were safely back in Cabin H, they sat cross-legged on their beds, facing one another. Mole raked his fingers through his hair before peeling his gloves off. Gregory marveled at how Mole looked so much older than he really was; three or four years, even. Nearly a teenager.

The green eyes fixed themselves on the brunette's own leather-booted feet, the thick eyebrows furrowing beneath the bangs. "…Do you…forgeeve me?"

"Yes," Gregory answered quietly, without any hesitation whatsoever. Gregory expected his counterpart to heave a sigh of relief, but The Mole still looked rather dissatisfied with the situation. He blinked slowly, and Gregory watched him carefully.

There was a brief pause in their conversation. "…I…can't really explain why I do zeese sings to you, Gregory…" the smooth voice confided, the shaggy French head shaking slightly as Mole spoke. "…I…I mean…I don't _want_ to 'urt you…"

"I know you don't…"

"…I love you, _mon chéri_…p-please understand…zat I don't do zeese sings eententionally…I just…'ave such a 'ard time…with feeling _accepted…_"

"Well, _you're_ the only person _I'll_ ever need to be accepted by," Gregory replied simply. He smiled at the brunette, hearing laughter outside as the other boys began heading for their Cabins to retrieve their nightclothes before showering. Glancing around quickly to make certain that they were alone, he got off of his bed and pressed his lips tenderly into one of The Mole's eyebrows. "And I love you, too. No matter _what_ you do or say," the blonde whispered, grabbing his sleep pants from beneath his pillow and a pair of underwear from the tiny dresser between their beds. When he looked back at Mole, the French boy's eyes were sparkling, a smile brightening his tired, filthy face. Gregory reached forward instinctively and brushed the chocolate bangs out of the pretty green eyes, grinning as he did so. "We're best friends, Mole. People forgive their best friends for _everything._"

_Especially when their best friends are as lovely as you are._

…Gregory's face flushed violently. He hadn't meant to think that…in fact, he didn't even know where that thought had _come_ from! It had just played suddenly in his head, without warning, without provocation. He stood stark still for a moment, his eyes glazing over, his face beet-red, and The Mole just stared back up at him, greatly confused.

"…What eez wrong?" he asked. Gregory shook his head, and his golden locks bounced around his ears.

"Nothing, nothing, I…I'm g-going to take a shower now," he announced, clutching his clothes to his chest and turning quickly away from his oldest friend. He nearly tripped over his own feet as he left the Cabin.

The other first-years had congregated around the showers already; there was a group of them standing aimlessly off to the side of the stalls, chatting away, while they waited for one of the current occupants to finish bathing. Slightly put off by this, Gregory found his own quiet spot beside a rather out-of-place patch of grass and sat down on the wooden elevation. He gazed off into the distance, into the bluish-purple flush of sky on the horizon; it still got to him, he realized, not having any mountains or trees around. Out here in Nevada, the universe was a vast, vicious wasteland, and he was just a little speck of nothingness, lost in it all. He swallowed thickly and tried reminding himself that he would be leaving this terrible place in only three more days, but it didn't help much.

He couldn't deny it, really. Something awful had happened here over the past four weeks; something that had affected both himself _and_ young Mr. Delorne. He wasn't sure just what had started it, nor was he certain exactly what it was. The fact that Mole had become Mole in the first place; the fact that he had found something he was very good at, something that people _respected_ him for; the fact that Gregory had finally been labeled as a nerd in society…all of these things could have been to blame. But whatever had caused it, it had happened, and now the two of them were being drawn into it against their wills. _Find your place, join the conga line._ Gregory's face screwed up just thinking about it. He didn't want to be looked at as "just another part of society". Being in a place like this, though, that basically _forced_ you to be labeled…he rested his elbows on his knees, his chin in his palms as he thought of it. Society was ruthless, wasn't it?

He didn't yet realize that it would _always_ be that way.

The wood beside him creaked with added weight, and he sighed as The Mole took his place beside him. Gregory cocked his eyebrows and looked over at his friend, now over his little embarrassment from a few minutes before. "…Hey, Mole?" he asked softly; Mole looked up at him to show that he was listening. "Do you think…that we'll always be friends?"

In response to this question, the French boy looked, much to Gregory's distress, as he often did after being "lectured" by his mother. The green eyes filled with a dark sort of _knowing_, as if he was aware of something awful that was eventually going to happen that Gregory hadn't the slightest clue about. Sometimes Gregory found this little detail about The Mole to be interesting and mysterious, but on occasions like this, he found it quite unattractive and almost _frightening._ He tried to fight a shiver that raced down his spine, but he couldn't, and he had to fold his arms around his body to comfort himself.

"…God, Mole…" he breathed, pulling away slightly, "I wish you wouldn't look at me that way…"

"What way?" Mole asked, sounding honestly confused. Gregory closed his eyes and shook his head, and The Mole leaned gently into his shoulder. "…I…Gregory…I sink zat we will always care for one anozar. I can't yet tell whezer or not we will care more or less for each ozar as ze years go by…but I do believe zat zer will always be some level of fondness between us…"

"Then why are you looking at me like that?" the blonde asked, feeling the urge to cry, suddenly, for a reason neither of them really understood. Mole's face was blank. "…It's like…like you're predicting your own _death_, or something, and you just don't want me to know about it. It's really scary, Mole, and I wish you wouldn't do it…"

An eerie second of silence as a few of the shower stalls were exchanged between their fellow seven-year-olds. "…Gregory, I really do _not_ know what you are talking about," Mole said softly. Gregory let out another wavering sigh, realizing that his friend was telling the truth.

"…I just…I just want to go _home_, Christophe…I hate this p-place…"

He didn't look, this time, but he felt the gaze on his face fill with grief as these words passed through his lips. The pressure on his shoulder increased slightly, and Mole's thick fingers curled reassuringly around his forearm, the other hand running up his spine and resting on his opposite shoulder. Gregory leaned into the embrace, a strange sort of sickness—very different from the one he had felt that very morning—racing suddenly through his veins. The brunette pressed his forehead Gregory's hair, his breath running over the Brit's ear as he first searched for the words, then found them.

"…What deed we just talk about, Gregory?" that smooth, beautiful voice asked. Gregory swallowed painfully. "…Mmm? I just told you zat I love you. I'm telling you now to _nevar_ _believe_ _anysing_ _else_ zat you evar 'ear about my feelings for you. Okay?" The Brit nodded and let out a wavering breath; The Mole heard it. "…Please…_please_ don't cry, _mon chéri_…eef you cry, zen _I_ will cry, and I know you 'ate zat as much as I do…"

The blonde decided to say nothing. If he spoke again, he knew he would almost certainly burst into tears, and he couldn't risk it, now. He wondered dimly, though, why Mole was holding him now like he was. There were people all around them; people watching them, people whispering. He could hear them. _He_ didn't care, but he knew that Mole had developed a very strong sense of self-consciousness over the course of the past month…surely it was bothering the young Frenchman?

_Who cares?_

_He's offering it._

_You want it?_

_You take it._

He sniffed and loved the darkness that his eyelids provided, curling into his best friend's accepting arms. The Mole pushed Gregory's hair out of his face; smiled into him. And it was in that moment that Gregory realized that he would never feel that way toward another human being again in his entire life.

Some of the showers stopped, and for the first time in nearly a month, Gregory found himself smiling a pure, genuine smile.

For the first time in his life, he was happy with the truth.

* * *

Thursday. 

The first-years went out to the field after breakfast (Gregory and the Mole walking side-by-side) and found that it had been sprayed quite relentlessly with water before their arrival. Wilma was standing at the beginning of the obstacle course with a stopwatch clenched tightly in her hand, that malevolent, not-quite-human air still about her. Her lips curled outward into her idea of a smile.

"I like to think that little boys are like cars," she said loudly, and the Brit and the French boy exchanged a very meaningful glance. "You pump them full of fuel, and then you expect them to get over all of the terrain you place in front of them. You expect them to perform to the best of their ability. And they _do_, or else you get mad." Her fist tightened, stretching the skin of her knuckles almost to the breaking point. Gregory noticed that the riding crop was still strapped firmly to her waist, and today, it looked especially threatening. "The only difference between little boys and cars is that you can _train_ little boys, just like you can train monkeys. So boys, you have exactly three minutes to get through this waterlogged obstacle course." She hit a button on her stopwatch and her eyes glistened evilly. "…Go."

They all went, for fear of facing the business end of that riding crop. Legend had it amongst the second-years that she had actually used it last year (the first day of camp, so that his parents would have no evidence) on a now-graduate for something he had done his very first year at the Academy. She did not forget you, the older boys had said, nor did she forget anything that you did to piss her off in your younger years. That boy had done the drills and been in misery for nearly two weeks, covered in abnormal cuts and bruises from that horrible thing. By the time camp was over, the cuts and other wounds had disappeared, and the boy had been left with the sick longing for revenge as his bus had driven away. Gregory believed the story, of course, but he also thought that whatever that boy had gone through, it couldn't have been half as bad as the torture that young Mole was forced to endure in the supposed safety of his own home. Every time they heard the story, The Mole had always kept a careful, calculating smirk on his face, like he was thinking the same exact thing that Gregory was, and Gregory loved him dearly for that.

…The obstacle course was much more difficult when it was as slippery as it was, the boys soon found out. The Mole whispered to Gregory: "go slowly…eet eez easier to stay on track zat way." The two of them drifted stealthily past the others (slipping and sliding through the mud, coating themselves with filth and making it that much harder to get over the walls and under the wires), and they felt almost like ninjas. Each placement of their feet and hands was most important; if they made one false move, it could mean falling into the mud and sacrificing very valuable time. They spanned the monkey bars and hopped through the tires, their boots squishing in the mud as they struggled to keep their balance.

They both finished with twelve seconds to spare.

…Wilma Williams's face was an amazing spectacle when she was angry. First it went a very stark white, her over-plucked eyebrows burying themselves comfortably in the fat of her forehead, her jowls quivering gelatinously against her cheekbones. Then her chin would tighten up, her lips pressing hard together as they puckered out from her teeth, and her eyes proceeded to sink deeply into her skull when her eyebrows reappeared. Her cheeks would flush pink, then red, then magenta, and a vein would appear at her temple, crawling down below her left eye. If she was mad enough, sometimes you could see the vein pulsating there in her cheek; angry and throbbing and blue, as if it were attempting to force her eye out of its socket. After a moment or so of shaking her head mechanically back and forth in denial, her face would cool back down to red, and she would begin to click her teeth at you, baring the gray-yellow bones through the painted lips while she struggled to think of something derogatory to say in response to your offense (whatever it may have been). And then, finally, she would let out a hiss of a sigh as her face cooled to pink again, like a teapot letting out steam, and she would make her "smile" at you.

"…Well, Mole, it looks like you've finished ahead of the others _yet again_," she said softly, staring down at the two of them as if she would have very much enjoyed tearing their faces off with her bare hands. "…Mr. Thorne, however, seems to have cheated by copying you. Thorne, why don't you go on back there and try it again? We've got all the time in the world to wait for you to get it right…_don't_ we, Mole?"

Gregory felt The Mole tense in time with him, but the brunette's mouth opened first. "Zat eez not fair, Gregory eez just a smart boy, zat eez all, and besides, wasn't ze point of zees to get over ze obstacle course? Does eet really matter just _'ow_ 'e deed eet—?"

"_All the time in the world,_ Mr. Thorne," Wilma growled, pointing one mammoth finger over the boys' heads, back toward the starting line. At this point, a few of the other boys had managed to scramble their way over to the headmistress and her companions, and there was a little bit of whispering going on. Gregory's face flushed indignantly, and he cast a thankful glance over at The Mole, who was shaking with fury as he glared up at the evil woman. That riding crop caught Gregory's blue-eyed gaze before he managed to begin his own protest in his defense, though, and he was forced to lower his head shamefully before he murmured an agreement with her.

Mole turned and stared at him, in utter shock. He actually hissed out a, "_what?_" of frustration, in total disbelief that his friend would have given up on their cause so easily. Gregory simply glanced at him desperately, biting his lower lip so hard that it hurt, and he shook his head before turning around and heading back toward the beginning of the course. Mole stared after him as Wilma sneered in triumph and held up her stopwatch, ready to begin her cruel game.

* * *

Adults could be extremely cold more often than not, both Gregory and Mole knew all too well. By the time Friday came and went, and the first-years spent the evening retrieving the suitcases they had brought and hadn't needed at all (the older boys pointed and laughed at them as they went through the startlingly large pile, and there were a lot of embarrassed curses muttered), Wilma had picked on Gregory so much that he felt like a little blonde pimple on a teenage Nevada's face. He had spoken with Mole about it a little, and the two of them had come to the conclusion that Wilma Williams was bigoted against Aryans…and quite bit against plain old Europeans, too. 

"Maybe she eez a Jew, and she sinks zat you are a Nazi," Mole had suggested, looking a little guilty about bringing up such a thing but allowing Gregory to consider it, anyway. Gregory had laughed at this idea.

"I doubt it, Mole. Why would she be intimidated by me, anyway? I'm seven years old."

"I am just saying…"

…Gregory slept fairly well on Friday night, regardless, his usually blank sleep disrupted only by the presence of a single, very brief dream. In this dream, he was lying on his back in a field of flowers, with a cloudless blue sky above him and what felt like someone's lap beneath his head. There were fingers in his hair, and as that person leaned down close to him and sighed in his ear, their fingers touched the back of his neck ever so softly. Gregory's eyes shot open with the caress, and he was shocked, for one half-asleep moment, to be met with the surprisingly pleasant sensation of something stewing violently in his lower abdomen. He rolled over onto his side and fell asleep once more almost immediately, though the dream did not come to him again.

When he woke up on Saturday, he found himself sitting through breakfast with a strange sort of thought nibbling at the back of his brain, and he also found himself not wanting to know what that thought _was._ It was quite strange for him to feel this way about one of his own ideas; usually he took them all in with open arms, no matter how silly or strange or frightening they might have been. But something felt wrong about this thought, Gregory decided dimly; it would have been like seeing an apple with a bumpy, violet peel at the supermarket among the smooth, red ones. It might have been the wrong color, the wrong shape, the wrong size, the wrong texture, smell, taste…but whatever it was, Gregory knew that he didn't want it to come near him or his consciousness. So he pushed it down through bacon and eggs and laughed with Mole and ignored the smell of cigarettes, going on with his life as if the thing didn't even exist. Just as he would have done had he seen a purple apple.

They left the camp shortly after breakfast, post a very long and very boring speech about diligence and integrity from Wilma. Mole let out a startlingly loud dying giraffe call once she had finished, and it split through the halfhearted applause for three eerie seconds before everyone started laughing, excluding the headmistress. No one except for Gregory and The Mole ever knew just who had made the sound, but no one ever forgot it, either. They all boarded the buses wearing their uniforms, laughing and talking and shoving each other about. Gregory and Mole found seats near the front of the bus, where no one could really look at them while they sat there, and they situated themselves as they had on the forward journey; Gregory near the window, Mole in the aisle.

Gregory grunted after about ten minutes of driving and peeled his gloves off, jamming them into his pockets and rubbing his wrists irritably. He examined his palms. He had gained a few ugly, angry blisters over the past few weeks, and he wondered just why; the gloves had been made to protect from the blisters, or so he had thought. He looked over at Mole's hands, still gloved, and he thought of the hard, virile calluses on those palms. He sighed and leaned against the window, staring out at the sky. Perhaps Mole would just _always_ adapt better than he would. Perhaps that was just how it was meant to be.

A shaggy head pressed itself into Gregory's shoulder, nudged against his jaw, and the blonde looked down at The Mole. The French boy's face was dirty, and he looked very, very tired; not an unusual sight, but still, Gregory worried. He slung his arm around his best friend. "…You all right, Mole?" he asked gently, trying to smooth down a rebellious lock of brown hair. It sprung back up. The French boy nodded.

"…Yes, Gregory," came the breathy response, and The Mole embraced him and leaned trustingly against his arm. "…We are going 'ome. I am…so 'appy to leave zat place."

"No you're not, don't say that," Gregory argued. "You don't want to see your mum again yet. I saw the way you stared at the Cabin when we left it."

"I am 'appy for _you_, _mon chéri_, I know zat you were looking forward to leaving," Mole replied. "…Soon you will go back to your books, and school, and sings will be back to normal again."

A brief pause rose between them. Gregory adjusted his arm slightly and pulled Mole into him.

"…Normal…"

They both smiled and laughed inside, somehow knowing that there was no such thing as _normal_ when it came to the two of them, even though nothing truly extraordinary had happened to them yet. Mole let out a weary sigh after a few moments, and Gregory relaxed his body to make his friend more comfortable. He let The Mole lean up against his shoulder and close his eyes, and he waited for the brunette to fall asleep with an easy smile on his face. That thought that he had been pushing down all day stayed smoldering in the back of his mind, and at this point, he could only guess what the idea had originally been about.

Something about growing up too soon, he supposed.


	9. Separated

_"Snow can wait, I forgot my mittens_  
_Wipe my nose, get my new boots on  
I get a little warm in my heart when I think of winter  
I put my hand in my father's glove  
I run off where the drifts get deeper  
Sleeping beauty trips me with a frown  
I hear a voice, 'you must learn to stand up  
For yourself cause I can't always be around.'  
He says: 'When you gonna make up your mind?  
When you gonna love you as much as I do?  
When you gonna make up your mind?  
Cause things are gonna change so fast  
All the white horses are still in bed  
I tell you that I'll always want you near  
You say that things change, my dear…'"_  
—"Winter", Tori Amos

* * *

I'm sorry it's been so long since I last updated. I've been really busy with school. 

But here's where we start to ease into BLU. Now I know that this is what you all have been waiting for—to see how I incorporate the movie into this story—so…here we go. We begin with a delve back into the present; a suggestion made by the fabulous **Oyaji**. Love him, he is _brilliant._

MY FIFTEENTH BIRTHDAY IS IN FOURTEEN DAYS (spazz) which means it's been almost a year since I began writing South Park fanfiction. Wheee :D

* * *

**Chapter Nine**

_Christophe is quiet, still. He has been for the past hour, as Gregory has been relaying the story of their childhood; smoking occasionally, thoughtfully, staring out over the water with his legs drawn up close to him. Gregory has been chancing looks over at him every once in a while, when he says something particularly memorable, but all he ever really seems to get is a solemn nod out of the Frenchman, and once, a very secretive smile. Gregory is beginning to feel a little uncomfortable, and he takes this moment to pause in his story; to join his oldest friend in staring out over the water._

"…_Eet eez beautiful," Christophe murmurs; the first words he's spoken in a very long time. Gregory nods._

"_Yes," the Brit sighs. "I've always enjoyed this sight. It's much more lovely at night, when you cunnot see the garbage in the water—"_

"_No…not zat. I mean…ze way you speak," the brunette says softly, scratching at the stubble on his chin. He looks over at Gregory, and Gregory looks back, wide-eyed. "…You remember everysing, don't you? Every last detail."_

"_I…well…I suppose I do, yes," the blonde replies sheepishly, his face flushing a bit. "It…it's not something that I…ever really want to forget…so I suppose that's really a good thing…"_

_Christophe lets out a little grunt of laughter and cannot stifle a cough; it's hard and rough, damp and ragged from the cigarettes. Gregory's eyes find Christophe's boots, for lack of anything more interesting to look at, now. They're frayed and very loved, and Gregory remembers suddenly, with a tiny spark of pride and deep affection, that _he_ is the one who bought these boots for Christophe. That was after everything, though, he remembers sadly; after _that night_, and after the scar on his lip and that surreal conversation. He wonders where these boots have taken his friend over the years, and if, beneath the fabric, that little flower is still blooming on Christophe's ankle._

_Their eyes meet again, and Gregory can't deny the fact that the green gaze is tinted with anxiety; he knows now that Gregory is going to repeat _everything._ But he wants to hear it; he wants to remember the feelings and the words and the way that they danced._

"…_Well…" Christophe wheezes; he clears his throat to fix his voice. "…Do you remember what 'appened next? After we arrived back 'ome?"_

_Gregory hesitates for just a moment, then nods grimly, pursing his lips. "…Yes, that…that was the day that I first saw your scars," he says softly, his eyes wandering to his own hands. Christophe shifts, a bit uncomfortably, beside him on the bridge. "…But that was later…after we arrived back in Colorado, your mother started on you again almost immediately…but _my_ mum…"_

* * *

Katherine cried when her son stepped off of the bus. She ran to him and locked her arms around him; picked him up and swung him around, smothering him with kisses before she set him down and began examining him for cuts and bruises and asking him if they had treated him all right at the Academy. Gregory smiled at her and lied to her, saying: "yes, Mum, everyone was very nice. I made quite a lot of friends and had a wonderful time." 

When The Mole stepped off, immediately after Gregory, he scanned the thin crowd of parents for a few seconds before he found his own mother's eyes, cold and gray-green, staring back at him with a sort of contempt that didn't belong in the eyes of any worthy mother. Despite his reluctance, Mole dragged his suitcase over to Nicole Delorne and dropped it at her feet, meeting her gaze powerfully. She smiled vaguely at him, giving him a dim sense of hope that perhaps this reunion would not be quite as laborious as he had been dreading it would be.

"…Son," she murmured.

"…Muzar," he replied. They exchanged calculating looks before Mole stepped forward and hugged her around her middle. Despite the fact that she was a cruel, cold-hearted woman, she was still his mother, and he still did care for her, to some degree. Her skeletal fingers found his shoulder and lightly stroked his hair, and he heard her sniff disgustedly above him.

"…You smell like tobacco, Christophe," she told him. "You've been smoking, 'aven't you? You dirty boy…_feelthy_..." He said nothing, choosing instead to ignore the irritated words and enjoy what little love he was managing to coax out of her. All of this was quickly lost when her fist closed around a clump of his hair, jerking it painfully back and away from him. He let go and was pulled away from his mother with tears in his eyes from the sharp sting of pain. When her fingers relaxed and returned to her side, her eyes caught by the sight of Mrs. Thorne and Gregory, a few thin locks of dark brown hair fluttered lifelessly to the cold cement ground. The Mole turned around and faced his friend and his mother, his hand running numbly over the little amorphous bald spot now on the back of his head. Gregory saw the green eyes flash with loathing before they shot to the ground, fixating on the lost pieces of hair. The blonde did not look at Ms. Delorne, knowing that if he did, he would most likely succeed only in making things worse for The Mole.

Katherine beamed down at Mole and knelt down in front of him, placing her hands lovingly on his face and rubbing a smudge of dirt off of his cheek. He smiled at her. "And how are _you_, Christophe? Did you take good care of Gregory while you were at camp?"

"…Ah, well…actually…I believe eet was _Gregory_ 'oo took good care of _me._"

Mrs. Thorne's eyes sparkled. "Is that so?" she asked, and when Mole nodded, she laughed and kissed his forehead. "Well, it's good to have the both of you back. The house got far too lonely without you two playing War all the time."

Gregory was very surprised to see The Mole's face tint slightly pink at the touch of Katherine's lips; the emerald eyes glistened distantly and a very blissful grin crept slowly up his cheeks. "…Well…now we will be playing eet nonstop, so zat should make you 'appy, Meesus Zorne."

She tussled his hair lightly and gave both boys one last happy smile before she turned to gather their suitcases. Gregory watched Mole carefully, examining the red flush on his cheeks with a very interested eye; he had never seen his friend react to anything in such a manner before. Katherine nodded to them, their bags in hand, and gestured for them to follow Ms. Delorne out of the bus station. They did so happily, smiling at each other and laughing. More than anything, the two of them were happy to be back in a place that they remembered.

They found the old Jetta very easily and clambered into it, situating themselves in the backseat before Mrs. Thorne started the engine and they began the long drive home. Gregory stared out his window as they left the parking lot, his eyes fixated on the bus station all the way. He thanked God that he wouldn't have to see that miserable sight again for another whole year.

* * *

They played War for three hours before Katherine called them out for dinner. They had burgers and told their mothers all about the Academy (of course, they left out a few crucial details, but they would never find out about those, would they?), occasionally exchanging knowing glances. Katherine seemed much more at ease after they had finished their stories, and she managed to finish dinner with a smile on her face. Gregory and The Mole fled back to their room and settled around their soldiers, and the blonde stared at the brunette for a moment, a soldier held tightly in his palm. 

"…Mole?" he asked quietly. The green eyes found his face and glistened in dissatisfaction; he could hear something that he didn't like in Gregory's voice. "…At the bus station…your mother…I saw—"

"_Gregory_," Mole growled, deep in his throat. Gregory bit his tongue, but still swore that he saw a bit of shame in his best friend's face. The Mole shook his head grimly. "…'ow many times…eet eez nuhsing to be concerned about. I've leeved with eet for ze past seven years, I will leeve with eet for ze next eleven."

Gregory's eyebrows furrowed sadly, and he allowed the soldier to drop to the carpet. Mole stared up at him, almost angry with him for not letting it go. "…But you shouldn't _have_ to," he murmured, and he leaned over and kissed the dirty French cheek. The Mole sighed heavily and dropped his own toys, turning away from the Brit so that he couldn't read his eyes anymore. Gregory closed his eyes and shook his head. "I…God, I hate it when you just _deny_ it like this…"

"…What am I supposed to do, _mon chéri_…" Mole breathed softly, drawing his knees up to his eyes and burying them in each other. "…Eet…eet just makes eet easier for me…to make believe zat eet will all be better soon. Eef I deedn't do zees…eet would 'urt me zat much more." He folded his arms around his legs, trying to trap himself inside of some protective universe of flesh and bone. "…I just wish you could see zat." Gregory felt a sob wrack his body, though he wasn't anywhere close to tears.

"…But it's _there_, Christophe, and you cunnot just tell yourself that it doesn't even _exist._ It's a terrible thing, what she does to you, and I know that there has to be a way to fight her—"

"_Shut UP!_" The Mole spat, glaring up at Gregory with leaking green eyes. "You 'ave 'elped me _enough!_ Stop trying to make eet better, Gregory, eet eez _not_ going away! I know damn well zat eet fucking sucks! I don't fucking need you to _tell me_ zat I should cry about eet!"

"I'm not saying that at all," Gregory said gently, and the anger faltered in The Mole's face. The brunette looked a little sick. "…Just…I want you to tell me how it makes you feel when she…does this."

"And what are you; my serapeest?" Mole growled, blinking hard. "I don't want to be fucking _analyzed_, Gregory, zat only makes sings 'arder. But you nevar mind your own beezinus, _do_ you?"

The blonde reached over and ran his fingers over the back of Mole's head, stroking the bald spot tenderly. The French boy bit his lips together.

"I'm not trying to be your therapist, Mole. I'm trying to be your _friend_, and I wish that you would let me."

Mole had no response to this, and a very awkward silence followed. Gregory shifted uncomfortably, and his hand found The Mole's. The hard fingers were strangely cold to the touch, and green eyes met blue eyes after a moment or so. "…Eet makes me…" he whispered, and he shuddered as he searched for the right word. "Eet makes me feel…_alone_…and…afraid…and I 'ate zat, Gregory, I f-fucking 'ate eet…eet makes me so mad at 'er…so upset zat I can't g-get 'er to stop…zat I let 'er chase m-my fazur off with eet. Eet makes me f-feel…like zer's nuhsing out zer f-for me…and zat everysing I'll ever get eez right 'ear, right now."

Gregory's fingers tensed automatically around Mole's, and a tear dripped freely out of the corner of the French boy's eye. He sniffed and wiped his nose, grinding his teeth. "Eez zat what you w-wanted to 'ear, G-Gregory? Does zat make eet bettar? _NO. _Eet only m-makes you _worry_ about me, and I 'ate zat, t-too…I 'ate making you b-bear my burden…I w-won't let you do eet anymore…"

Mrs. Thorne's voice broke through the solitude of their room, and both of them flinched when they felt the privacy crack around them. "Boys! One of you has to take a bath, now!"

They were both very quiet for a moment, then Mole wiped his eye and snickered a little under his breath. It was very forced. "Eh…she 'ad to come een _now_, deedn't she?" he asked quietly, more to himself than to Gregory. He stood up without waiting for his blonde friend and gathered up his pajamas, drifting out of the door before Gregory had a chance to respond. He sat there on the carpeted floor among the soldiers, staring at the doorway, wondering how in the hell he was going to convince his best friend that the one thing he was denying him was the only thing that he truly _wanted_ to do.

* * *

Bedtime came much too slowly. 

Gregory knew that this was the only time that Mole would _really_ open up to him, so he could only look forward to it. And once they had arrived there, and his mother turned the light out and shut the door behind her, he waited, just as he had always done before. He lay as still as he could, hardly daring to breathe as he awaited that gentle creak of mattress springs…the soft shuffle of feet on the carpet…and then the little hands, pulling back the sheets to allow entrance into what had been, once upon a time, Gregory's own private universe. He shared it now, though, and gladly, with the one and only other person who could ever understand the majesty of its mystery. His blue eyes focused on the ceiling and he waited, listening…listening…

Finally it came, though much later than it should have, and he let out his breath, as silently as he could. Mole climbed readily into his designated place; curled up against Gregory's torso, his forehead buried in the crook of the blonde's neck. Gregory felt a very subtle dampness against his skin, and he closed his eyes into the soft brown hair, reaching up and smoothing the locks down over the bare spot soothingly. It was hard to imagine—hard to accept the fact—that not twenty-four hours ago, The Mole had been known to practically everyone at Wilma Williams's Military Academy for Boys as the toughest kid in the whole damn facility. Now, he was lying in bed with the biggest geek in the Academy, his eyes filled with tears and his body trembling softly as he struggled not to sob. For a single quiet, desolate moment, Gregory felt a very strange sensation at the realization that he was the only person in the world who had ever been this close to Christophe Delorne.

Perhaps it was pride; he couldn't tell. Perhaps it was something else entirely.

Mole turned his head a bit, readjusting himself against the Brit's neck, and Gregory leaned forward and kissed the bald spot tenderly. The Mole sniffled.

"…W-we…" he whispered, his thick little fingers grasping Gregory's nightshirt more tightly as he spoke, "…we will _always_ b-be friends, Gregory…I p-promise you zat m-much…"

The blonde sighed quietly and nodded to show that he understood what the other boy was trying to say, and Mole wrapped his arms around Gregory's torso, pulling them together. Gregory held him back and said nothing to break the moment, resting his chin lightly in the forest of dark brown hair, breathing slowly and evenly against the French boy's own strong chest. Mole was like a puppy sometimes, Gregory thought dimly; loyal and fun and protective, and very caring when it counted most. But still, as it turned out, _he_ was the one who needed the most care of all. Maybe, the blonde considered, that wasn't really a bad thing. After all, Gregory _enjoyed_ caring for The Mole. He liked to feel needed, especially by such a powerful young man.

…For the first time, as far as Gregory could remember, Mole fell asleep _before_ him. He soon found himself pressed against a gently snoring young Mr. Delorne, the face still stained with tears, the nightshirt only half-buttoned and leaving the chest exposed. Gregory's fingers found the buttons for his friend and started to close them, when Mole rolled over and caught the blue eyes with something sickeningly strange.

Jagged and raised along The Mole's chest were several long, undefined scars. Gregory counted seven pale lines marring the tanned skin, his entire body paralyzed as his blood ran cold in his veins. What the hell _were_ those, he wondered darkly, and where had they come from? He hadn't noticed them before, while they were at camp…was it just because the light had never hit Mole in the right way while they were there? Or had he simply not had them before, and gotten them during a mistake in drills? It seemed much more logical that they had just not been there before, Gregory thought, but he dared to reach out and gently touch one of them. Mole trembled beneath the caress; sighed in his sleep, and Gregory looked up into his best friend's face. The scars were old. They were healed much too securely for them to be any younger than a year old.

But where did he GET them? 

His mind lingered on Ms. Delorne for a second, but he closed his eyes and shook that thought off. She may have been insane, but these scars looked like they were from something much different than fingernails or a belt. For some reason, he gave her the benefit of the doubt, deciding that even crazy people had their limitations. Ms. Delorne would not go so far as to deliberately cut her son, no matter how fucked up she was.

Shuddering involuntarily, he finished buttoning up the shirt, hiding those hideous marks from himself. He wanted to ask Mole what they were from, but he highly doubted that he would get any kind of response other than "I don't know." Smoothing the shirt down over Mole's chest, Gregory looked up into the older boy's face, smiling weakly at how innocent he looked when he was asleep. So soft and helpless, and as young and beautiful as he truly was. Gregory lay down into Mole's side, nuzzling the sallow, defined cheek with his nose, and wrapped his arms carefully around the French boy's shoulders. Mole made a soft "mmm" noise and turned his head to the side a little, leaving that bald spot exposed again. Gregory stared at it, hating it and all that it represented.

He kissed the hairless patch on his best friend's head one last time before he curled up and went to sleep.

* * *

The typical morning serenity back home was marred by patches of darkness blotting Gregory's vision whenever he remembered the scars on The Mole's chest. They sat and played War for an hour or so after a breakfast of Fruit Loops, with Gregory's movements lacking valor and Mole pretending not to notice. Had Gregory's soldiers been real, he assumed, they would have had a mutiny and planted his head on a stake out in front of their tent for carelessly making them lose so many troops. 

Mole had just run over John P. Johnson's face with the remote-controlled tank (much to the dismay of Erick F. Erickson, who was John P. Johnson's drinking buddy back home in southern Alabama) when Nicole stepped casually into the room. She announced something that shook all vestiges of scar-related blackness out of Gregory's field of vision, setting his sights on something newly terrible and agonizing. The Mole's head snapped around toward his mother, his thumb slipping on the tank control and relieving Erick F. Erickson of his grief. Gregory's fist clenched around Jeremy K. Jeremiah, trembling with rage.

"_WHAT?_" The Mole cried, his voice cracking in disbelief. Gregory turned to face her, and it sickened him that she looked so proud of herself. She stood there in the doorway with a huge smile on her face, wrinkles gathered at the corners of her cold, glistening gray-green eyes, her auburn hair swept neatly back with a headband. She had one palm on the doorframe, the other on her waist, and she was wearing a billowing green dress with large, blue flowers embroidered on it. Gregory had never hated her more than he did at that precise moment.

"We are _moving_, Christophe! We are leaving ze Zornes and moving to our own 'ouse, een a town furzer down ze mountain."

A stifled gagging sound clawed its way out of Mole's mouth before he found words again. His face was extraordinarily pale, and Gregory wondered half-consciously if he was going to vomit. "…Wuh-w-_why?_" the French boy whimpered, his mouth hanging open, his lower jaw trembling violently. His body seemed unsure how to react to heartbreaking news such as this. "I…w-we are 'appy _'ear_, M-Muzar, I do n-not underst-stand—"

"I deed not expect you to," Nicole said in her all-too-familiar wintry voice, her eyelids lowering smoothly over the gray orbs. Gregory wished deeply that Ms. Delorne had been under the tank's wheels in place of John P. Johnson, and his fist tightened so much around Jeremy K. Jeremiah's little plastic body that he could feel the intricate designs of the soldier's uniform engraving themselves into the flesh of his hand. His eyes clouded with tears and Mole's mouth remained agape as Ms. Delorne lost interest in the two of them and made one final comment—"we are leaving een two days, so get packing"—before twirling around and leaving them alone, hopelessly confused and in shock, sitting on the floor in the middle of their room.

Gregory had only lost two other people that he had truly loved before in his life, but that had been at a time when he had been far too young to truly comprehend the meaning of "losing someone". Still, he recognized the feelings of pain in his heart that he sometimes felt when he remembered his father and his uncle as a side-effect of that loss, and he knew that it was entirely probable that he would feel that pain for anyone else that he lost. He dropped Jeremy K. Jeremiah onto the stained carpet of his and The Mole's bedroom and quietly sank back onto his heels, curling his fingers weakly into fists on his thighs as the tears pushed through his eyelids. He did _not_ want to feel that pain for Mole. Because Mole was…somehow _different_ than his father and his uncle. Not like a friend, really…not even so much like a brother. Deeper than that, maybe. It was strange and he couldn't even begin to explain it, but still, that didn't make it okay to tear it away from him like that.

Gregory sobbed and wiped his face, hating that he always had to be such a crybaby. Mole was staring at the remote-controlled tank with a look of pure emptiness painted onto his bronzed face, lines etched into the corners of his eyes and mouth from years of frowning like that. The blonde buried his face in his hands, tore at his eyes furiously, fighting the tears back. He looked down at The Mole with red, puffy eyes, his teeth chattering from the effort of biting back the sobs, and he hiccuped.

"…Christophe…?" he asked gently, and the brunette turned his head ever so slowly to face him. Their eyes met for a split second before it all went to Hell, and though he didn't realize it until much, much later, in that instant, Gregory saw everything that The Mole was going to do after he turned away. He saw the burst of flame in his eyes when he started, and the screams and the tears and the explosion of plaster and plastic above his bed when the remote-controlled tank hit the wall and died. He saw the front door open and let the French boy outside, running off into the foul world shrieking and crying about how nothing was ever going to be okay again. He saw himself running after his best friend, physically able to chase but not emotionally stable enough; tripping and falling into the ice and scraping his forehead against the cold ground. He only really woke up after he raised his head from the snow, though, staring down at the pink ground below him and realizing that he was bleeding but no longer crying. His eyes found the forest, and everything seemed so surreal, knocked golden-blue from his bump on the head. Brush moved and he staggered to his feet, running after the noises and clutching at his skull.

"_Mole!_"

It was like chasing a ghost. Every time Gregory thought he had caught a glimpse of The Mole, branches would move and cover the elusive seven-year-old once more. The two of them went further and further up the slope, cold and tearstained, Gregory's raw forehead stinging nastily in the chill of the wind. His legs began to throb and ache from digging through virgin snow.

At long last, though, they came to a clearing, and The Mole stopped.

He knelt down in the ice, soaking his pants but not seeming to care, his head bowed and his fingers fumbling angrily with his pocket fastening. Gregory leaned against a tree for a moment and attempted to gather his bearings, ignoring the dribble of blood that was making its way down the bridge of his nose. Then he stumbled through more snow, making his way over to Mole, who had found what he had been looking for in his pocket and was now smoking heavily. The cigarette trembled in his fingers, burning yellow-orange-gold like Gregory's hair.

Mole coughed and did not look at his friend. "I k-keep zem…een a secret p-place…no one finds zem zer…"

"Finds what?" Gregory murmured, sniffing and hating the pitiful sound of his own strangled breathing. Mole ashed on the snow and it melted a little from the distant warmth.

"…My suh-ceegarettes," he choked, his shoulders slouching weakly. He coughed and sobbed at the same time, and neither of them were really sure just what to think or feel. "…Zey are…een a sh-shoebox. An old one of my f-fazur's. 'E…'is favorite p-pair of b-buh-boots…came een eet…"

The blonde's eyes glazed over, and he was suddenly met with the image of The Mole's scarred chest, as if the vision were some sort of alarm going off in his head at the mention of the French boy's father. Gregory murmured something indiscernible to himself before he turned to Mole, his fingers finding the trail of blood between his eyes and smearing it up one eyebrow. "…Mole…before you g-guh…_go_…I want…I want you to ask me two kuh-questions…anything that you w-want to know about me…"

The brunette sniffed and nodded, his eyes finally finding Gregory's face.

"B-but after I tell you, I w-want _you_ to tell _me_ two things about y-you that I think I should know."

Mole dropped his cigarette into the snow and nodded once again, slowly. Gregory tried to remember the happy glint he had seen before in his best friend's gaze; it would make it easier to speak, that way. He could not find it but sighed, regardless, and took Mole by the hand instead to feel the soft heat of the fingers against his own. He would not feel that ever again, if Ms. Delorne had her way. And she _would_ have her way, he thought miserably, trying to push strength into his voice.

"…Will you…always l-love me, Gregory?" The Mole asked quietly, the words strained with emotion. He sniffled and wiped his nose, his strong shoulders shaking, pulled down by the weight of the pain. Gregory squeezed his hand as reassuringly as he could, both of them trying to stay focused on each other but neither one really succeeding.

"Of course I w-will," he murmured, attempting a smile and failing. "And you know I'll kuh-cry for hours after y-you're gone."

Mole stared at his soggy, dead cigarette, lying motionless in the snow before them. The air in the clearing smelled like fireplaces and moldy wood. "…I get one m-more question, zen?"

"Yes."

A brief pause as The Mole thought. Then he sighed, his breath billowing out of his mouth in a thin cloud of fog. "D-do you promees me…zat you w-will stay as strong as you are…even wizout m-me around?"

Gregory sank, wanting to promise anything that Mole asked but not certain that he could do it if he didn't really mean it. Those green eyes dug into the side of his face, and he shuddered. "…Yes, Christophe. I p-promise. I'll do it for _you._"

He felt a smile shine beside him. It was a weak smile, barely there, but it was there, nonetheless. He squeezed the fingers more tightly.

"Eet eez your turn, now, G-Gregory. I p-promees to answer you."

In truth, Gregory had thousands of questions that he wanted to ask his best friend. To pick just two was like asking a kid to pick just two of their toys to save before their house burned down. He shuddered and picked one, his mind racing to find another one that was worthwhile. "…Has your mother ever t-told you…that she l-loves you?"

"…I…" Mole mumbled, and his face turned red, though whether it was from shame or anger, Gregory really couldn't tell. "…N-no…not…I mean…_no_. She…she 'asn't."

Gregory felt some rage of his own biting at the pits of his stomach, but he was forced to ignore it and ask his second question. He found Mole's eyes and did his best to stay there; green grass against a blue sky, and Gregory shivered and wiped his eyes on his sleeve. He didn't really think Mole would actually answer his final question, but it was worth trying, anyway.

"…Why d-do you have scars…on your chest?"

Mole's breath hitched in his throat. He did not look away, however, as Gregory had expected him to; he kept his gaze focused on Gregory's, hard and piercing and icy, yet warm deep down, loving and tender. Gregory stared back, and The Mole smiled a sick sort of smile that shouldn't have been there. It was so out of place that it was scary. "…My muzar…she t-tells me…" he said quietly, and Gregory heard the boiling hatred at the bottom of the words, "…she tells me zat eet eez _my_ f-fault zat she lost eet on my fazur. She tells me z-zat she weeshes zat I 'ad n-nevar been born. And I agree, m-most of ze time." He murmured something that sounded like a swear word in French under his breath and coughed harshly before he continued. "…Muzar tells me…zat she 'ates me. I b-believe 'er. I bear ze m-mark of 'er 'atred."

Gregory's heart sank. He wished he hadn't asked that question. "Y-you mean your mum—?"

"Two questions, Gregory. We are f-feenished 'ear."

Gregory's legs were numb from the snow. The two of them looked at each other, long and sad, and the blonde blinked the tears out of his eyes angrily. Mole leaned forward and wrapped his arms tightly around Gregory, and Gregory hugged him back, letting out little dry sobs every few seconds. Neither of them had ever felt more alone.

There was nothing in the world that could provide solace.


	10. The Wasteland

Well, as of last Wednesday, I am officially fifteen years old. IT'S EXCITING 8D

XDD my party was great. We watched Beetlejuice and School of Rock and The Cable Guy, and we ate pizza and cheese curls LMAO. In the presents department…uhh…I got an Mp3 player (not an iPod, but an i_River_) so I am no longer ghetto-fabulous, _The Complete Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy_, _Holes_, "Flood" by They Might Be Giants, a CD by Sensation White (which is this really great techno band), a pop-up version of Lewis Carroll's _Jabberwocky_ poem, a few drawings by my fabulous friend Mary, a 12" figurine of an Alien (squee!), a handmade whistle that doesn't work too well but is still awesome, roughly $105, a Franz Ferdinand shirt, a Jack Skellington pillow, an authentic Caution: Wet Floor sign (don't ask), a furry purple and black scarf, "Major Payne", and an unsharpened light blue colored pencil. XD

Sad chapter last time, I'm sorry. But this is a sad story! This one's…I guess…a tad bit more upbeat…though slightly shorter…I DUNNO XP Why don't you just read it and find out for yourself, kay? Meh :D

GOD THERE IS _SO MUCH MORE_ TO COME! You guys don't know what you're missing. XDD

* * *

**Chapter Ten**

The Mole did not come to Gregory's side the night before he left, and Gregory suppressed tears for an hour before he cracked, ripping his way out of his own bed and trudging over to Mole's. The French boy, who had apparently not expected this turn of events, gasped audibly when Gregory pressed into him and urged him to turn around. The tearful blue eyes dug into the green ones, very angry and upset.

"Why didn't you come?" Gregory demanded, wiping his eyes. "This is probably the last time we'll ever see each other…and you just stay in bed?" He didn't give The Mole a chance to respond before he noodled his way under the covers and clung to his best friend's nightshirt, kissing the scarred chest through the fabric. "…I'm going to miss you _desperately_, Mole, and I want to have a chance to remember…everything…"

"Gregory…'ush…you'll wake our muzars—"

Gregory glared at him. "Oh, _fuck_ that!" he hissed in his sharp British voice, surprising The Mole into silence. The French boy made a very irritated face at his best friend, and Gregory thought he looked a little pained, like he was hurting on the inside for some reason _other_ than the fact that he would be leaving the next day.

"…Gregory," he said quietly, and he took the Brit by the hands carefully, staring into his eyes. Gregory stared back and felt the irritation start to swirl away, down the drain, like something had flushed in his mind. He felt suddenly ashamed of himself. How could The Mole be so strong about something like this, when it would so obviously cut him deeply afterward? The thumbs caressed the backs of his hands, and the French boy pressed their foreheads together; Gregory winced against the pain in his still slightly bruised forehead. The sheets were very comforting, holding everything else back from them. "…You know ze _true_ reason why I am leaving tomorrow, don't you?"

Gregory's eyes narrowed. "Of course I do. It's because your mum's a—"

"_NO, mon chéri._ Eet eez not because of zat. Eet eez because…plainly and seemply…God _'ates_ me."

There was a very long, awkward silence between them after that. Mole brushed curls behind Gregory's ear and sighed sadly, avoiding the glistening blue eyes as best he could. Gregory's fingers tensed around the callused hands of his counterpart. "…N-no…Christophe, don't say that. God doesn't hate you. God loves _everyone_."

"Oh, does 'e? Zen why does 'e let people go to 'ell? Why does 'e send 'omosexuals and ze people 'oo cannot confess to 'ell, Gregory? And why ze fucking 'ell does _my_ life 'urt me so badly? Zer eez one explanation, Gregory, and zat eez zat God _does_ play favoreets, and _I_ am just not one of zem." Gregory stared at him, not comprehending. Mole sighed. "…_You_, 'owevar…"

"Christophe, _please_. Don't say that kind of thing to me ever again," Gregory cut him off, and The Mole could hear the suffering in the little Brit's tone.

"I am just saying what eez true," Mole explained quietly. He looked into the cerulean eyes and tried not to appear guilty, and Gregory shook his head and cuddled into him, sighing.

"…For once, Christophe…please listen to me. For once, let's let it be about what _I_ want, okay?"

The green eyes narrowed. "Gregory…eet eez _always_ about what you want."

The Brit pressed his blonde head into The Mole's chest, closing his eyes, hurt. "Shut up and sleep, Mole…I want to remember the way you _snore._"

For the first and probably the only time in his life, Gregory regretted that The Mole had actually done what he had wanted him to do.

* * *

Mole's departure was painful on all levels for both of the Thornes; Gregory felt it emanating off of his mother as she hugged the mousy little French boy good-bye, and then even more as he himself embraced him. Mole had been Gregory's one and only _true_ friend. 

What bothered Gregory more, though, was the strange feeling that he had somehow come to accept the fact that Mole would be gone forever in a matter of hours. Whether it was from his own mother telling him that _they_ would be moving down to Ms. Delorne's new little mountain town later that week—to live about twenty miles away from the Delornes and make sure that they settled themselves all right—or from something else, Gregory wasn't sure. Whatever it was, though—that feeling of Mole being _not-quite-as-far-away-as-he-would-have-been-otherwise_,or just simply maturing—was less than all right with Gregory. He didn't cry when the car pulled out of the driveway and that little French face, looking even more like a dog now than it had nearly three years ago, had pressed sadly against the glass of the window and the lips had mouthed:

"_I'll come back for you, mon chéri."_

He would have liked to cry.

He had promised The Mole that he would cry once they were separated, and not doing so made him feel that much more terrible about the heartbreaking event. His eyes refused to spill tears, though, and he wondered later on if that was his subconscious working on fulfilling the second promise he had made to his best friend; to remain strong, no matter what, even after he was gone. Maybe, Gregory thought, it wouldn't be so bad if he managed to keep _one_ of the promises. Maybe he could cry, later.

The rest of that fateful day the house felt cold and empty, void of the little soldiers and the tank and Christophe's shoes lying haphazardly in the middle of the hallway, seemingly everywhere you put your feet. Gregory stayed in his room and read until it was time for dinner, and although he came to the table, he wasn't really there. Lost in his own thoughts, he didn't pay attention to a single thing that his mother said to him. She watched him from across the table worriedly, and eventually fell silent. She didn't even make him eat his vegetables before he solemnly got up and went to take a bath.

He tried to sleep but it didn't work. He kept glancing back over toward the corner of the room where Mole's bed had been only twenty-four hours ago, almost expecting to see the little Frenchman lying there on his mattress in his striped pajamas and staring at him with some tiny secret smile on his face. He kept disappointing himself, doing more damage each time he chanced a glimpse, and eventually he rolled over and faced the wall, hating everything about Ms. Delorne. She had taken away the only thing he had ever really wanted to hold on to, and she deserved to be loathed for that reason. She deserved to _burn_, he thought darkly, and he buried his face in his pillow and slept.

Gregory wandered around the house like a zombie until the day that he and his mother shipped out with a moving truck following them ominously, and even then he stared out the window blankly, silent and deep in his own thoughts. He could tell that it scared his mother, but at that point he could only care for himself. He was the one who was in pain, after all. He was the one who needed consolation for his injuries. And although he thought that thinking that sort of thing may have been a bit selfish of him, Gregory was a seven-year-old boy who didn't yet understand the concept of heartbreak, so in turn, he did not grasp the fact that he _shouldn't_ have felt guilty about frightening his mother. He smiled weakly at her when she asked him if he was all right, sinking further down into the back seat of the old Jetta and licking his wounds. His fingers rested, trembling, on the spot that a little boy named Christophe Delorne had once filled.

* * *

Aside from all of that, Gregory was, of course, very nervous about moving to a new town, where he knew no one and he would most likely be judged right off the bat. South Park was, as he had heard from people at the convenience stores closer to the old neighborhood (distantly, during his zombie stage, so he only remembered whispers of the conversations), a very raucous place; sort of a redneck's retreat, where strange things often happened. It had a very small population, and the kids were all foul-mouthed, dirty, villainous little brats, who picked their noses and started fights and played Playstation games instead of reading books and doing crossword puzzles. Gregory had no reason whatsoever to be inclined to move there, but Katherine told him that he would probably like it out there; it would be much easier to stand out in the public school system, besides, and the little girls these days liked boys who knew a lot. 

Gregory wasn't interested in girls, but he nodded anyway to keep her from stressing about something else as he watched her and the movers begin to unpack their things. The new house was cold and had two stories, and he hated the white walls and gray bathroom tile; it reminded him of a hospital, and he didn't really want to be there at all. It made him feel alone, and feeling alone reminded him that he _was_ alone. Mrs. Thorne noticed that he was still lying melodramatically on the sofa in the living room after an hour or so of work, and she gave him a bit of an exasperated look.

"Gregory, honey…why don't you go outside and play? Maybe you'll make friends with some of the neighborhood kids."

"Mum, I don't _want_ to make friends with them," he pouted. "I want to go back to the cabin, and Yardale, and Christophe."

"Well, you know how my work goes, sweetheart. They cun only live with us until they have enough money to support themselves. Since this was such a…a _special_ case, we moved out here so that we cun keep an eye on them for maybe a year or so, and then we'll go back up to the cabin while they stay down here," Katherine said softly, arranging knick-knacks half-consciously on the mantle. "…Christophe gave you his new address, baby. Why don't you just find someone who can give you directions to his house, and then you can come back here so I can drive you up there, and the three of you cun play together? Bring your toboggan, I know you two always had fun with that."

"Ms. Delorne _hates_ me, Mum," Gregory responded dryly, picking at a tiny rip in the sofa cushion. "I doubt she'll even let me in her house. She's such a _bitch._"

The moment he said it, he regretted it. "_Gregory!_" Mrs. Thorne hissed, dropping a figurine where it was and walking over to her son with her hands on her hips. Gregory's eyes shot open and fixed themselves upon Katherine's face, knowing that he was probably in trouble, now. He sat up and lowered his eyebrows when she knelt down in front of him, placing her hands on his shoulders. She sighed and stared at him for a moment, almost analyzing him, her lips pursed firmly. He could see wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, almost like The Mole's, only much more feminine. His heart ached and he didn't care anymore that he had called Nicole a bitch in front of his mother. "…Gregory, _please_…don't argue with me. I know this is going to be hard on the both of us, especially you, since Christophe was your first and best friend…but we've got to be strong through it, all right? So go outside and bring your sled and go and make friends. That's the only way that you'll ever get over it, all right, honey?"

His lips trembled and he nodded, ashamed of himself. He didn't want to get over it, but he had no other choice but to agree with his mother. She kissed his forehead and brushed his golden hair out of his face, met with slightly watering eyes when she had finished. She smiled at him and pulled him into her arms, hugging him warmly. He sniffled and blinked the stinging away. "…I'm sorry, Mum…I'll go…it…it's a nice neighborhood. I saw some kids skating earlier…I'll go…see if they'll let me skate with them…"

Mrs. Thorne laughed airily, and Gregory suddenly realized that she felt just as bad about leaving The Mole alone with Nicole as _he_ did. He hugged her tighter, loving her. "…Goodness, Gregory…you're so stubborn and opinionated…so much like your father that it scares me, sometimes…" she murmured. They exchanged a brief, light smile. "Here…give me a kiss, love, then go and find your clothes. Make sure that you dress warmly, it's freezing outside…"

He pecked his mother's cheek (she smelled like makeup and peach hand soap) and rose from the couch, making his way solemnly over to the stairs and climbing them without much fervor. He hesitated on the fifth step. Back at the cabin, the fifth step from the bottom had always creaked, because Mole had always taken a flying leap from there and jumped the last four steps. It had always been just to impress Gregory, who had only ever had enough courage to jump the final two steps. The third step had never creaked, though. Gregory trudged up the stairs and found his room, painted an icy blue and carpeted in beige. He shuddered at the sight of his bare mattress; everything felt so cold and vast and empty, now. He was no longer being comforted by The Mole's silent presence—those vague smiles and that spellbinding gaze—and he felt somehow incomplete without it all.

His clothes were in boxes, each labeled with a season and either "shirts" or "pants". He found the winter boxes and pulled out a thick orange button-down shirt that his mother had bought for him while he and The Mole had been at the Academy, and with a sigh, he pulled the fresh shirt on over his white turtleneck. He stopped for a moment once he had done this and stared, a bit absently, at the boxes once again. Which one were his skates in, again? Oh yes…of course…shoes. Grumbling half-consciously to himself, he jerked the box open and sifted through about six pairs of shoes, finding the ice skates a little later than he probably should have. But he got over the fog a little, and his gloves were easy enough to find, sitting on his dresser. He wrapped the matching brown scarf around his neck before heading down the stairs again, this time with his ice skates in tow, but with an irritated frown still plastered to his face.

It _was_ very cold outside. Holding the skates by their laces, Gregory surveyed his new neighborhood with a very scathing eye. There was white everywhere. A path led down his snow-encrusted driveway and onto a stick-straight road, running parallel to the snow banks on the opposite side. The sky was gray, and off in the distance, there were a few gray-brown trees dotting the pale horizon line. It all looked so _dead_, Gregory thought miserably, pulling his scarf up over his mouth to ward off the cold. Like a dead wasteland of ice. At least up at the cabin, there had been the green of the pine trees to liven the environment all year long. He glanced over his shoulder. Even his house was painted a sickening blue-gray. _This_, he thought, _is what Hell would look like if it were frozen over._

Shuddering, he stormed down his front steps and began to walk along the road, toward that little frozen pond he had seen earlier where the children had been skating. He would at least _go_ to the pond, he thought; he didn't really have any intentions of speaking to any of these rogues, and he wouldn't have a reason to, really, lest they talked to him first. He doubted that any of them would even strike his interest, though; from what he had heard, they were all simply barbarians. His boots crunched through the day-old snow, disagreeing with a patch of ice every once in a while and making him flail his arms to keep his balance, and with each passing second, he grew more and more flustered with both himself and his mother. He began to pass more houses, and then there was a plowed street and sidewalks, and adults passing him as he walked. Some of them smiled at him, but some of them just shot him angry and questioning looks, as if they knew he shouldn't have been there. He averted his eyes from all of them and tried to keep his gaze downward as he traveled, past the plastic surgeon's store, past the drug store, past the movie theater (where there was a poster advertising some Canadian film). He ignored everything and sighed when a scraggly, long-since-dead tree caught his eye, and he saw the sign that told him he had made it:

**STARK'S POND**

There were only a couple of kids there; a girl with curly blonde hair, he saw as he approached the ice, who was giggling and talking with a boy in a blue hat. A short, skinny, gullible-looking boy with a tuft of flyaway blonde hair atop his head. An African-American boy, skating figure-eights near the middle of the pond. A few others. None of them really appealed all that much to Gregory, but as he sat down on the edge of the ice and began to put his skates on, they all noticed him and started to whisper amongst themselves. He sensed all their eyes on him as he laced up his shoes, ignoring them until he finally decided that maybe acknowledging them would make them lose interest. He looked up at the crowd and waved obtusely, and that was when he saw her.

She was in the front of the pack, now, watching him carefully as he worked at his skates. He stopped for a second and just stared at her, a bit taken aback. She was…somehow _different_ than those other kids were. Deciding that he was worth approaching, she smiled at him and skated over to him easily, her pale cheeks tinted pink from the cold, her breath clouding before her. Her dark blue eyes glistened in the dim light filtering through the cloud cover, sheets of long, raven hair spilling out behind her, over her deep violet winter coat. She stopped in front of him and blinked flirtatiously, thinking for a moment as she looked him over. He smiled back at her and stood as he finally finished tying his skates.

"…Hi," she said sweetly; her voice was quiet and very high-pitched, as if it strained her delicate throat just to speak. "My name is Wendy Testaburger. I've never seen you here before…are you new?"

"Yes," Gregory replied, linking his hands together. "Err…I'm Gregory Thorne. I just transferred here from Yardale." Her expression changed to one of what Gregory assumed was confusion; it made her face look even cuter, if that were possible. She was a very pretty girl, he decided, and he stepped carefully onto the ice beside her. "It's a private school, farther up north, in the higher mountains. I had a four-oh grade point average while I attended school there."

"Oh," Wendy murmured, sounding impressed, and then she giggled softly. "You sound a little bit like this boy I know named Pip. You're British, aren't you?"

"Why, yes," he said, grinning at her. "My mother and I moved here from England when I was just four years old."

She batted her eyelashes at him again, her lips still traced upward in a friendly smile. "Wow. It must've been really cool to live overseas…"

"Ah…yes. It was very…'cool'. At least…from what I remember, it was."

She laughed at him, bright and beautiful, and then she grabbed his hand, slipping her palm carefully over his in a very familiar way. "I like you, Gregory. Come and skate with me, and you can tell me all about yourself, okay?"

"Oh. Well, all right, then, Wendy," he responded, and he followed her out toward the middle of the pond, laughing with her as he told her carefully selected things about himself. He didn't know if she would understand everything about The Mole that he had to say about him, so he didn't chance enlightening her.

…_So perhaps they're not _all _barbarians_, he thought to himself after a little while of skating with Wendy. She had introduced him to the other children (none of whom really seemed very interesting, to him), and he had smiled at them all, though really he was more focused on her. He didn't like girls, sure, but Wendy was somehow…exceptional. Maybe it was because the way she had simply asserted herself into his life reminded him of The Mole. He found that extremely attractive and decided very quickly that as long as he was going to be forced to live there in South Park, he might as well make the best of it. He skated with her and held her hand and laughed when she told him stories about her own friends.

It had been about two hours when a small group of boys wandered up to the pond with no skates about them. Obviously they had no intention of skating, and, Gregory thought as he looked them over, if anyone in that town was a barbarian, it was most likely _those_ ruffians. The fat one had a mean face and tiny, beady eyes that shifted around every once in a while, as if he was expecting someone to insult him and he wanted to catch them in the act, and his yellow-clad hands were balled into fists against his disgusting gut. The way that the one in the blue hat smiled gave Gregory the feeling that he was very easily confused and knew next to nothing about the world around him. The one in the green hat looked overly-confident in himself, but the way he stayed close to the shorter, blue-hatted boy made Gregory think that _he_ was probably quite ignorant, as well. The one in the orange hood had stains all over his parka and kept scratching himself, which gave the impression of a child that had been allowed to run wild since birth. The blonde Brit turned his nose up at them and stayed on the other side of the pond with Wendy, even after the other children began to congregate around the new arrivals.

"We just saw the Terrance and Phillip movie!" Gregory heard a voice say, and Wendy perked up at the sound of someone familiar, casting a wary glance over toward the crowd. _Damn_, he thought bitterly, _she knows them. Now she'll want to go introduce me. This is exactly what I _didn't_ want to happen._ She squeezed his hand and leaned closer to him for a second.

"Come on, let's go say hi…I think you'll like Stan!"

_I doubt it_, he thought, although he sighed and nodded on the outside, following her at a distance over to the group of boys.

"Yes, yes, I saw the Terrance and Phillip movie, now who wants to touch me?" the fat boy asked, looking appallingly proud of himself. Gregory slowed down and let Wendy twirl her way over to the boys on her own. The fat boy glanced around and scowled when no one reacted. "…_I SAID WHO WANTS TO FUCKING TOUCH ME?_"

The skinny, gullible-looking blonde boy reached tentatively forward and touched the back of the fat boy's hand with two careful fingers. "…Oooh," he remarked quietly, and a smug smirk wormed its way onto the fat boy's face. Gregory noticed that the blue-hatted boy (whom he assumed was "Stan") was fixated on Wendy, who had accidentally sprayed ice in his face. She smiled warmly at him (a hint that perhaps there had once been something between the two of them), and Gregory growled to himself, skating huffily over to the two of them. He would _not_ lose another wonderful friend for such a stupid reason.

"Come, Wendy," he said to her, just a hint of jealousy in his voice. "Let us try to jump the hilly brush."

Stan frowned at Gregory and furrowed his eyebrows, brushing ice off of his coat. "Who're you, kid?"

"My name is Gregory," Gregory said astutely, linking his hands behind his back. "I just transferred here from Yardale, where I had a four-oh grade point average."

Stan blinked stupidly, as if not comprehending a single word that the Brit had just said. "…We just saw the Terrance and Phillip movie!" he responded dully, and Gregory cocked his eyebrows at him slightly. That had nothing to do with what he had just said.

"…Oh-ho…" he said quietly, trying not to come out and say that talking to Stan was not worth his time in the least. He turned to Wendy, deciding that avoiding the problem altogether was probably the best solution. "Try and catch me, Wendy!" he suggested, skating off to the opposite end of the pond again. He heard her bid a quiet good-bye to Stan before she skated off after Gregory, and the blonde smiled to himself.

_Maybe this won't be as bad as I thought it would be._

* * *

"So did you make any friends today, baby?" Katherine asked curiously, watching her son over the salt and pepper shakers in the box-filled kitchen. Gregory chewed his meatloaf thoughtfully and smiled at her once he had swallowed. 

"Yes, Mum. I met someone very nice. I think we'll grow to be…the best of friends," he said quietly, turning his peas over on his plate. He remembered his and Mole's short-lived adventures with the walkie-talkies, and he sighed dimly into his food. Katherine didn't catch the sad sound.

"Very good, sweetheart! What's his name?"

"_Her_, Mum. It…she's a girl."

"Oh!" Katherine looked very surprised by this, but she gave him a devious look as mothers will when they hear of their children gaining any sort of interest in the opposite sex. "Well then. What's _her_ name?"

"Wendy," Gregory answered, still staring half-consciously at his peas. "I think we'll be in the same grade this year. She looked a little older than me, but, you know…since I didn't go to kindergarten…she _would_ be about a year older."

"Right," Mrs. Thorne agreed, still with that hint of a teasing tone in her voice. "Well…is she _pretty?_"

Gregory snapped out of his trance and fixed his mother with an accusing stare. "_Mother._ I do _not_ have a crush on Wendy."

"Of course you don't, honey," Katherine said, smiling. Gregory scowled at her for a moment before looking angrily back down at his vegetables, red-faced.

"…Yes, Mum. She's very pretty," he said softly, stabbing some of the peas. "But looks aside, she's nowhere near Christophe. I mean, the way she…she could _never…_" he paused and flushed some more, shaking his head. Katherine was watching him carefully from across the table, amused by how flustered he was. "…She reminds me of him, I guess, in the way that she's the only one who really talks to me…but…she's a _girl._ It's not going to be the same at all—"

"Ah! Goodness, Gregory, thank you for reminding me…" she rose from the table suddenly and dashed over to the countertop, leaving her son sitting very confused on his own at dinner. He stared at her, dumbfounded, as she brought a piece of paper back to the table and handed it to him. A phone number was scrawled hastily on it in his mother's loopy handwriting.

"…What's this?" he asked.

"Nicole called my cell phone earlier…she said that Christophe has been doing nothing but moping around and sighing since they moved in, and she wants you to call their house sometime soon to 'snap him out of it'." Gregory stared at the number, his heart swelling gradually in his chest like a big, happy balloon as the words sank in more and more. "So maybe you could call him tomorrow morning? I'm sure he'd appreciate it."

The little blonde boy swallowed thickly and set the paper down beside his plate daintily, as if it were made of porcelain and one false move would send it spiraling into oblivion. He could _not_ lose this chance to talk to The Mole. He just _couldn't._ He smiled up at his mother and loved her more than he ever had before.

"…Thanks, Mum," he said gently. "…I'll do that."

He ate his peas and, to Katherine's relief, he finished dinner with a smile on his face. At that point, that was all she could have asked for.


	11. Kissing Mermaids

Sorry this took forever and a day to get up, guys. I kind of…took a break, lol.

I owe much of this chapter to Macy Gray's "I Try", which made up much of my soundtrack as I forced myself to write. That lovely lady's harsh vocals made all my words so sparkly-pretty, just as you crave them, children. Give that song a listen if ever you get the chance.

…That, and Jamiroquai's "Canned Heat". Yes. I apologize. Disco makes me want to write random crap.

Anyways, I hope you like this piece of the pie, even if it might seem really short and more than a bit rushed. This part's not important because it doesn't involve adorable Greg/Chris interaction, which is the point of this whole story. Yep.

…

Allan, shut up. XDDD

* * *

**Chapter Eleven**

"_Aló?_"

It was like a dream to finally hear it: that hard voice, whispered so softly and anxiously into the mouthpiece of the phone on the other end of the line. Gregory shuddered as the lead bricks in his stomach shattered. It felt like years had passed between them.

"…Hey, Mole."

"Gregory…" A gentle breath of a word. The blonde couldn't keep himself from smiling at the sound of his own name as the lead melted and evaporated. "I…'ow are you? I mees you…so much. What…are sings…going all right with you …?"

"…I…I miss you, too," Gregory murmured, pulling on the curls of the phone cord. There was a long pause between them, then, all the unspoken words and all of the sad thoughts clouding between them and making a silent static. Gregory suddenly realized that he had next to nothing that he could say over the phone, and he hated himself for that. The Mole coughed wetly, and Gregory remembered the cigarettes. He felt something strange in his chest that he couldn't place.

"…I want…I w-want to see you…" the French boy said quietly. There was some bizarre kind of adult yearning in his voice that Gregory didn't recognize, and it made him feel stupid to not know it. He couldn't make words in his mind for his mouth to say. His face was flushing in rage and embarrassment, his feet shifting angrily against themselves on the tile floor below. "…Gregory? Are you zer…?"

"M-Mole, I…" he stammered, "…could we maybe…meet, sometime? There's this place called Stark's Pond, I think it's right between our houses…we could go ice skating, that would be fun."

The Mole's smile seemed to shine through the phone. "Zat sounds…_nice._ Tomorrow? Are you free?"

"I…" Gregory's heart sank. "I would love to…but I have…s-school…"

There was a cold, strained pause. Mole coughed. The static took over. "…I see," Mole murmured, his voice reflecting despair. "Well…maybe…some ozar time, when you are not…busy. Muzar eez calling me now, I mustn't keep her waiting. Good-bye, Gregory."

"Oh," Gregory mumbled, crushed. "Bye—"

The Mole hung up. Four seconds later, Gregory was struck with the sickening realization that Ms. Delorne hadn't _really_ been calling her son.

* * *

Gregory decided immediately that he hated public school. 

It smelled like garbage and murky sewer water, and the water in the fountains was warm and tasted like metal. And not only that, it was _dirty_. He realized ten seconds after setting foot in his third-grade classroom that every rumor he had heard about the nose-picking, trash-talking children of South Park, Colorado had been one hundred percent true. He focused particularly on the four boys he had seen at Stark's Pond the other day—Stan and his friends, the ones who had seen that Canadian film…Terry and something, was it?—who were all talking and laughing excitedly about said movie. He shifted bitterly away from them and found a spare seat near the back, not wanting to be noticed, if it could be helped. He watched the door, hoping to see a face enter that even hinted at intelligence.

His heart leapt when a familiar raven-haired damsel entered the room, and he caught that hint of The Mole in her smile again when she saw him. Wendy quickly took a seat beside him, touching his shoulder pleasantly. He flashed his best smile back at her.

"I'm so glad you're in my class," she said sweetly, making him sigh. She definitely had that special quirk, he thought to himself, though he was still having a hard time placing exactly what it _was._

"I am, too," he replied humbly. "It's nice to have someone sensible nearby, especially in such a wild town."

She ran her tiny fingers through her silken hair and laughed at him from behind ebony strands. He couldn't take his eyes off of her all day, lost in the fog: held deep in the startling realization of her overwhelming beauty.

She was so like Mole that it scared him.

* * *

Days passed like wind through vacant space, bringing snow and conflict, and with that conflict, politics and fire. 

A war broke out. Its arrival was shocking in all senses of the word: it all began with the death of one of Stan's friends—a little boy named Kenny McKormick, Gregory heard—and it quickly grew to be something inexplicably insane. The attack was against Canada, for that senseless film that all the kids were erupting in foul language about, and it was fronted by some nutty woman named Sheila Broflovski: the mother of Stan's best friend, whom Gregory quickly learned was named Kyle.

Kyle was one of those boys who could never speak up and therefore could never make anything out of himself, Gregory thought angrily, and that was why he couldn't talk any sense into his own mother. He wound up calling The Mole several more times throughout the early- and mid-stages of the war, and though they never met in person, they shared heated discussions about the occurrences in the world that Gregory could have sworn amused his French friend greatly. After Gregory had piped down about the war, Mole would go off on a tangent about something completely irrelevant, like the fact that his neighbors had guard dogs that barked all night and that he _swore_ were rabid.

"I fucking _'ate_ guard dogs!" the French boy cackled into the phone.

It made Gregory extremely mad that The Mole could just laugh the whole situation off so easily when there were lives being lost and necessary action was failing to be taken. Yet at the same time, he felt like such a hypocrite for getting mad about that: _he_ wasn't really doing much to rally anyone against the war effort, either, so he shouldn't have been complaining like he was.

To make himself feel better, he began searching the Internet for some sort of local resistance organization that he could join to soothe his own riled emotions and possibly impress Wendy at the same time. He was appalled at how little he found: the only thing available was a one-page web post about something called "La Resistance", and he felt more than a little edgy when he realized that it could very well be a joke posted by The Mole himself. After all, Mole had a way of reading Gregory's mind and playing his cards against him like that.

Nonetheless, Gregory somehow found himself sneaking out of the house and meeting up with Wendy in front of her house late on the designated night, walking carefully through the dark streets toward Carl's Warehouse, where the La Resistance meeting was going to be taking place. Wendy gripped his hand tightly in hers and led him, knowing the way, and he tried not to breathe too loudly so she wouldn't notice how nervous he was. They found the site easily and Gregory knocked on the door when Wendy nodded at him.

A slot moved near the top of the door so someone could look out at them. "Who is it?" a voice asked.

"I…I'm here for La Resistance!" Gregory whispered back.

A brief pause. Wendy stifled a sneeze.

"…What's the password?" the voice demanded.

Gregory blinked stupidly and exchanged a blank look with Wendy. "…I…don't know…"

"_Guess!_" the person behind the door hissed.

Gregory stared at the door. "Uhh…_bacon?_"

Another moment of hesitation before the door opened. Stan, Kyle, and their fat friend, Eric, all stared out at Gregory and Wendy, and Gregory felt his heart sink.

_Oh, great_, he thought miserably. This_ is going to be a barrel of fun._

* * *

La Resistance did, in fact, turn out to be an extremely pathetic, waste-of-time excuse for an anti-war effort. All Stan and Kyle were worried about was the well-being of their precious Canadian TV stars (who were apparently being held captive and were to be executed at an upcoming USO show). Neither of them, however, had formulated any sort of tangible plan for retaliation, save the garden-variety prank phone call (which wouldn't have done anything productive, anyhow). Gregory had been forced to take the meeting into his own hands, and he realized very shortly into his own speech that The Mole's services would come in handy in such a situation. 

Mole had recently been telling Gregory of his plans to become a mercenary after he turned eighteen, and although Gregory in no way supported such a misinformed decision, he decided to humor his best friend by sending him recruiters from La Resistance. He gave Stan The Mole's address and told him that he was "a mercenary for hire" with a good deal of experience in this field (which was only partially true, but still, Mole would definitely agree to go along with such an adventure, especially once he heard that Gregory had sent the pigeons to him). Stan and Kyle _did_ seem slightly impressed, though Stan was still rather standoffish toward Gregory…mostly because of Wendy.

Not that the blonde cared in the slightest. Wendy had, after all, chosen _him_ over Stan.

…The next evening, Gregory was once again running alongside Wendy to the rendezvous point that he had designated during the La Resistance meeting, the other children heading the pack. Wendy's hand was clutched in Gregory's, and he was trying to get her to speed up, but she ran terribly slowly, and soon the others had moved ahead and it was just him and her jogging through the dark, eerie woods.

She gasped for breath when they entered a clearing. "Gregory…" she whispered, stopping and pulling him back. He whirled around and found himself pressed extremely close to her, both of them panting and wide-eyed. She bit her lower lip and hesitantly brushed a few strands of blonde behind Gregory's ear, and he shivered beneath her gentle touch. "…I need to…rest for a minute…" she breathed.

He nodded in understanding and looked around for somewhere to sit, finding only an ancient, rotting log and offering it to the lady uncertainly. She gave him a look of approval and sat, and he heaved a quiet sigh of relief, lacing his fingers against the back of his neck. He paced through the thick snow in front of her, staring up at the moonlight, so unsure of what to say, now that they were alone. It was obvious that she had stopped him for more than just this reason, he thought. She wanted…to _talk._

His lips burned.

"Gregory," Wendy murmured, brushing snow off the log with her gloved fingers, "…have you ever…_liked_ anybody before?"

He stopped pacing and met her watery blue gaze, his blonde eyebrows furrowing anxiously over his own sapphire eyes. "…Of…of course, Wendy."

She sort of nodded and looked down at her lap, swinging her legs and toeing at the loose snow below her. "…What happened to her?" she asked softly.

Gregory's face flushed, thoughts of The Mole's smooth laughter plaguing him. "…W-well…we were…sort of _separated_, when I m-moved here…" he half-lied, burying his fingers in his hair and wishing the heat in his cheeks away. Wendy sniffed.

"What was she like?"

Gregory coughed, his head spinning with frantic memories of Mole. "…I…jeez, Wendy, I…I don't know…how do you d-describe someone that you love? Not necessarily the kindest or the s-sweetest…but…definitely the most _beautiful_ person…I've ever known…" he sighed, shaking his head and hiding his eyes in his palms. A knife suddenly ran through his heart as he realized something that made his blood run cold with sickness. "But…b-but it's all gone, now. That relationship…as long as I'm here, I'm never going to have it back in the same way again."

"Oh," Wendy said, sounding a little upset. "N-no, Gregory…you shouldn't say that…there's always hope that you two will meet up again!"

_Like that's what _you_ want._

He laughed dryly, feeling nauseous. She watched him precariously from her seat, and he could see her blushing distantly in the moonlight. He stared over at her, and a long, thick silence fell between them. She stood up, beautiful and majestic, holding that aura that he both hated and loved so tenderly.

"…W-Wendy…" he choked.

"Yes?" she asked, her voice barely audible, even in the stark silence of the woods. She smiled that Mole smile at him, and he melted. Words dribbled out of his mouth that his brain hadn't yet properly registered.

"…I guess I was just thinking that…now that I've lost all of those things…that first love, my old l-life…maybe I could build it all back up again, here, with…with _you_," he said quietly, blushing against his will. He paused on the makeshift path his fellow Resistance members had made and he stared down at his feet, his heart thudding hard against his ribcage. Why did she have to _look_ at him like that? He met her gaze again carefully, so afraid of rejection, now. Blue poured into blue, and the world sparkled for a moment when she smiled even more broadly at him. She stepped up to him and slid her hand into his softly, tracing her fingertips over each of his knuckles. She kissed him on the mouth and giggled.

"Gregory," she whispered, making his breath hitch in his throat. He closed his eyes and wondered where that trace of cake frosting had come from in her voice. She kissed him again, so expertly, and he opened his eyes to see their breath fogging between them. Her pink cheeks were pretty and pale in the distant moonlight, accented so temptingly by her raven hair. Kissing her was like kissing a mermaid, Gregory thought; something secret and mysterious that no one else would ever truly understand in the same way that he did. And stranger still was the fact that kissing a mermaid was like kissing The Mole had always been; rare and dark and fantastic and so full of twisted affection every time it happened. Her lips were soft and pink; so unlike _his_ had always been, hard and chapped and dry. Gregory's stomach dropped. He suddenly didn't want this mermaid anymore. "…Gregory, you're so sweet."

He said nothing. He could only look at her; could only realize now just how much she truly reminded him of his lost friend. The way her cheeks were slightly sunken, and the way her ears stuck out beneath her hair. The way her long eyelashes covered big, expressive eyes that could go from bright and happy to black and hellish in an instant. The way she never laughed through her teeth. He found that his fingers were shaking in her grasp, and he hated that she didn't notice it. _The Mole_ would have noticed it. The Mole noticed _everything_. So that was how the two of them were different, then; Wendy had a head full of air.

_Fuck it, but she's all I've got, now…_

He swallowed tears and let her embrace him, snow crunching beneath her boots. He hated that he had been so blind. This girl…_this_ _senseless redneck South Park girl_…could _never_ replace his precious Mole. He was a selfish, ignorant fool to have thought otherwise.

He sobbed just as a bomb went off at the USO stadium nearby, and Wendy screamed.

* * *

All Hell had broken loose. 

Gregory ran, frantic, separated from Wendy by the bloodshed and gunfire around him. He felt sick but tried to stay strong, scanning the crimson landscape for any sign whatsoever of the pitiful La Resistance banner. He ran up alongside a chain link fence that encompassed a small courtyard and a warehouse outside of the USO stadium, and he grasped it tightly with his shaking, gloved fingers, leaning against it and pressing his face into the cool metal in an attempt to calm himself down. War had _never_ been like this before. At least, not with The Mole, it hadn't.

…Something growled menacingly on the other side of the fence, and he jerked around, wide-eyed, to stare into the gleaming brown eyes of a very vicious-looking dog. He backed away from the fence and kept his eyes locked fearfully on the Doberman's vengeful glare, and the dog licked its bloody chops and hunched back over a strange-looking form that was slumped in the snow that the warehouse was casting its shadow over. The boy's blue eyes rested on that snow-encrusted shape for a few seconds, and as a strange feeling weaseled its way into his stomach, he felt his body gravitating through a hole in the fence and toward it.

_What the hell _is_ it?_

The dog lost its bearings and bowed its head when it saw that Gregory was approaching, and it decided on the spot that it would be better to spend its last few minutes on Earth doing something other than protecting some now-worthless cargo. It turned tail and ran off, barking, into the heat of War, and Gregory's eyes widened in sickened fear as the shape revealed itself to be a body. Its clothes were torn and exposed bloody bites and gashes where the dog that had been guarding it (and possibly a few other dogs, as well) had attacked the poor soul. One muddy boot had ripped open at the ankle, and the filthy half-gloved fingers, pale pink from the cold, were wrapped around what looked like a shovel. The body's face and its possession were half-buried in the snow.

Gregory paused four feet away and stared down at the scene, dumbstruck and terrified.

"…Christ," he murmured to himself, running trembling fingers through his hair, fixated on the body even though he longed to look away. "…Kuh-Christ…he…he's dead…he's really d-dead…" A foul-smelling wind cut through the desolate courtyard, and the corpse's hair fluttered eerily in it, sending a painful chill down Gregory's spine. He hadn't thought that the dead could look so terribly _peaceful_, especially when covered in blood, face-down in the snow in the middle of nowhere. People who died in wars shouldn't have looked so…_perfect._

He embraced himself, frightened by his own thoughts, and he backed away slowly, his breathing strained. _What a horrible way to go_, he thought half-consciously. _Mauled by guard dogs._

And the body was so small…almost like…he was a— "Gregory!" 

The Brit whirled around at the sound of his own name and spied, to a sudden burst of half-relief, Wendy and several other Resistance members running like scared rabbits across the warpath. He dug his heels into the snow and broke through the hole in the fence again, leaving the body behind and praying to God that none of them had seen it. He really had no desire to even so much as _think_ about it anymore.

"Wendy!" he called back, and her hands went for his when they met. He let her cling to his fingers simply because he didn't want to feel alone anymore. "Wendy…where are all the others? Did you find Stan and Kyle?"

"I…no, we haven't found them yet," she said, her voice shaking with tears. "…B-but I think I heard them talking just over that hill, there! We have to go find them!"

"Right," he agreed, nodding and trying to ignore the cold, painful sting in the pit of his heart. "Okay, then, everyone! Let's go…_viva La Resistance!_"

"_VIVA LA RESISTANCE!_" they echoed, throwing their trembling fists into the air. The tiny group of third-graders took off across the bloodstained field again, and Gregory headed the pack through the chaos so that—even if only for an instant—he could feel normal again.


	12. Kyle

_Thank God!_ they all thought with a sigh of relief. _She's updating in intervals of less than half a year again!_

I'm not including all the crap about the war in here, because if you're reading this story, then you already know what happened, and how everything turned out. (Meaning you already saw the movie. Which if you _haven't_…I don't know what the hell is wrong with you. Why are you reading a fanfiction for a movie that you haven't even seen? Please go away. NO I'M JUST KIDDING)

…But this is a good chapter. I really like this one, so pay attention, please. It sort of touches on a bit of one-sided Christophe/Kyle, so if you enjoy that…you should like this, too. Also, sorry I never update anything anymore…I'm just not feeling quite as empowered writing-wise as I used to. And since school's starting again next month, and I haven't got any of the next chapter written out yet, I probably won't be updating again for a while…apologies, loves…cries

But, _success!_ We've hit the 90,000-word marker in this Word file! (though a chunk of that is stuff that hasn't been posted yet, and notes 'n other stuff…but WHATEV. 100 pages of continuous, unformatted story, as well.)

UGGH THE BLOODY BREAK TOOL ISN'T WORKING WHYYYYY

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**Chapter Twelve**

It had been The Mole.

_It_ being the dead body Gregory had seen that fateful evening in the midst of the war.

Gregory—freshly betrayed by Wendy and sulking in his back-of-the-classroom seat on one of the last few days of school—heard it from Kyle. The little Jewish boy had started sitting next to Gregory in a feeble attempt to comfort him (almost trying to prove that South Park kids _weren't_ all back-stabbing assholes, after all). He would talk senselessly about imbecilic things while Gregory glared across the classroom at Stan and Wendy holding hands beneath their desks. Kyle _tried_, Gregory gave him credit for that, but for nothing else. Honestly, he just wasn't really that good at making conversation.

But _that day_, The Mole's name had come out of Kyle's mouth, and Gregory had snapped to attention and stared over at him, wide awake.

"What did you say?" he demanded, startling Kyle into momentary silence.

"…I…The Mole. Your mercenary friend that I met during the war? He…called me, yesterday." Kyle blinked and watched Gregory uneasily, and the blonde simply stared back at Kyle in a very disconcerting way, as if waiting for him to say something else. Kyle swallowed and glanced over Gregory's shoulder. "He just…wanted to know how I was doing. And I was actually kind of surprised…I mean…you know what happened to him…_that night_, right?"

Gregory's eyes narrowed, his fingers finding his pencil on his desk and tapping it subconsciously on the wooden surface. "…What do you mean? He led you and Stan and Eric into the USO compound. That was his mission."

Kyle's face paled considerably. "…Oh…well…it's…not that it really m-matters, anymore…I mean, since Kenny's wish brought him back, but—"

Gregory blinked and felt his heart wretch bizarrely beneath his ribcage. "_'Brought him back'_? What do you…? What the hell does _that_ mean?"

"…I…Th-The Mole…_died_, Gregory," Kyle breathed, his eyes fixated on Gregory's, carefully monitoring the blonde's expression.

…Gregory's insides petrified, and he heard the pencil snap between his fingers but didn't feel it. He and Kyle stared at each other, each so unsure of his opposite, and Kyle bit the inside of his cheek in apprehension. The silence became thick and tense between them, a dense fog of coldness.

"…He was…attacked by g-guard dogs. And I w-was there with him, when he went," Kyle said quietly, looking down at his hands when the stress of looking into Gregory's eyes became too much to bear. "…He…he asked me…to hold him…I don't know, man, it's hard when your friend dies, right? I know…Kenny's died so many times that I can't even count it anymore, but…I remember the first few times it happened…I was so scared…that he wouldn't come back—"

"Y-you…you _held_ him?" Gregory asked, his voice broken. Kyle grimaced.

"…Well…he asked me to…and h-he was dying, I mean, I couldn't just—"

"You fucking h-held The Molewhile he _d-died?_" the Brit croaked, feeling his throat gathering an unpleasant-tasting lump. The Jew looked up at him, a pained expression lingering in his eyes. Flashes of that peaceful-looking body—of the dog, of the wind, of that entire terrible scene—kept digging agonizingly into Gregory's mind.

"Gregory, I'm sorry, all right?" Kyle sighed. "I'm sure he would have liked for _you_ to have been there in my place…b-but…from what h-he told me…I think he probably just…didn't want to feel _alone_ anymore…"

"Alone?" Gregory choked, his eyes huge and shining. "You think h-he…he felt…_alone?_"

Kyle's head lowered like a scared dog's. "I…the w-way he acted…that was the impression I got. But I mean—"

"_SHUT UP!_" Gregory screamed, rising suddenly from his desk and shocking everyone in the room into looking at him. "_SH-SHUT THE FUCK **UP**, K-KYLE! LIKE **YOU** KNOW **ANYTHING** ABOUT H-HUH-H-HIM, OR WHAT HE W-WOULD HAVE WANTED!_ _G-G-GOD**DAMN** YOU!_" The blonde threw the splintered remains of his pencil to the floor and lashed out, his heart aching in his frail chest. "_GODDAMN Y-YOU FOR JUST R-RUNNING OFF AND **L-L-LEAVING** HIM THERE TO **ROT!**_" He gripped the front of Kyle's jacket and pulled him forward, glaring down into the pale green eyes through blurry, tear-filled vision. "Th-The Mole…is _m-mine_, Kyle," he sobbed. "H-he's _my_ friend…y-you stay the h-hell away from him…you f-fucking bastard…y-you don't deserve h-him, you little b-bugger…useless…Jewish _sh-SHIT—!_"

"_Dude!_" Stan called angrily from across the room, rising from his desk with clenched fists to protect Kyle. Wendy's hands were over her mouth. That fat kid, Eric, was laughing.

Laughing, for Christ's sake. While everyone else stared, in shock. Like they couldn't believe in anyone ever hating Kyle.

Gregory screamed through clenched teeth and ran from the room, tears streaming down his cheeks while Eric laughed.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Weeks passed, full of the bland sewage of public school, and Gregory eventually found himself moving once again, only this time, it was to a very familiar place. And Mrs. Thorne told her son with a relieved sigh that The Mole would be coming back, too. As it happened, things just hadn't worked out in South Park, for any of them.

Frankly, Gregory was _glad._

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

…The first time their eyes met again, after ten long, agonizing months apart, Gregory was eating a Popsicle. It was strawberry-flavored and ice cream-filled, and he had been sucking on it happily for the past few minutes when he stopped suddenly, in mid-lick, presented with those fiery green orbs again after so long. Their gazes met from across the room, Gregory holding onto his mother's hand and wielding his Popsicle, The Mole standing alone and with nothing, and Mole smiled at the mess smeared around Gregory's mouth and made the blonde boy's eyes sting with tears. Mrs. Thorne released his hand and pushed him, a little; urged him off of the couch and onto the carpet, urged him to pass over that barrier and say hello to his best friend again. She got up and left the room, to find Nicole and help her unpack. Gregory lowered his head shyly and looked at his feet, unsure what to do or say, now. It had been so long…so much had happened…

"You…the war, you…" he stammered, and then he felt the shameful tears break through his eyelashes. "…Oh, God…" he whispered, "you…you _died_…I s-saw your body…before Satan arrived…"

Mole's smile did not falter. He stepped forward, into the light, and he wrapped his arms tightly around Gregory's body, leaving him confused with his Popsicle hanging in the air. Gregory felt him shudder before the familiar fingers found his hair, and he felt his heart ache with acceptance of that loving touch. He closed his eyes and hated what had happened in their absence from each other. It seemed that _neither_ of them could stay out of trouble without the other.

"…'Ell was no worse zan I 'ad expected eet to be," Mole breathed, and Gregory sobbed at the sound of those grown-up words, latching himself to the turtlenecked French boy and burying his streaming eyes in an accepting shoulder. The scent of cigarettes was somehow sweet, now, after so many months spent in its absence. Mole's lips found the back of Gregory's neck, and a weird tingle shot down the blonde's spine at the gentle kiss and made him shiver. "…I saw you on zat night, and ze ozar resistance members…'eading eento ze woods to get to ze rendezvous point…and I must tell you…you looked great, standing zer against ze woods, with ze wind een your 'air, commanding all ze ozars." He laughed that smooth laugh when Gregory sobbed into him. "…Orange eez really your color, _mon chéri._"

The Brit dropped his Popsicle onto the carpet and didn't care, squeezing his eyes tighter shut as a succession of sobs wracked his tiny body. "…I h-had no idea…that it was y-you…and I just…to h-hear it from that…th-that…_Kyle_ b-boy…! I…I kuh-k-_couldn't_…oh, _G-Guh-God_, Christophe…I've m-missed you so…"

There was a brief pause after Gregory used his real name, and The Mole tensed only slightly, but the blonde felt it for that brief second before it went away. The French boy sighed, and both of them, at last, felt alone together in the world. That was how they wanted it, in that moment.

"…But zees…Ky-el…'e eez not, eh, 'ow you say…_relevant_ to us, _mon chéri_. I told you on ze day zat I left zat I would come back for you," Mole said softly, netting their fingers. "Why…why are you so surprised?"

Gregory could do nothing but sputter and hiccup pitifully. The Mole smiled, rocking his dearest friend lovingly in his strong little arms.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Nothing has changed._

They lay in Gregory's bed, sobbing and caressing, the marks of abuse borne and loved properly.

_We're still the same people._

Gregory's golden head was buried in that too-beautiful scarred chest, and the heart within those bronzed ribs was so happy to be near the Brit again.

_Still…with the same love._

The Mole kissed Gregory's face with his long eyelashes, all tears and butterflies in the dark, and Gregory kissed back with lips and shaking fingers.

_And all the same intentions._

They fell asleep intertwined, breathing deep in and of each other.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

…_But if Kyle is irrelevant…then why do you grace him with your voice, _mon chéri?

Gregory wondered. He wondered constantly.

And he couldn't stand it. It was driving him insane. Every time he turned a corner in search of Mole—who had, for reasons unbeknownst to Gregory, thought it was necessary to abandon an in-progress board game (War had been abandoned as of late for obvious reasons)—there stood The Mole with the cordless phone. He was always smiling into the damned thing and laughing, whispering: "Oh, _Ky-el_…" in a voice that was simply _laden_ with cake frosting, and that was always what cut Gregory deep. The sugar in The Mole's voice was _theirs_, he had thought…no, he had _known_. He _knew_. That was Mole's voice for _him_, for _Gregory_, and for Gregory alone. That was what told Gregory that The Mole still…

…

…That he…_cared_ in _that way._

That voice was not to be used with Kyle. It was simply unacceptable.

So after a week of anger and pent-up rage, Gregory stormed up to The Mole while he was on the phone with stupid, brainless, uncaring Kyle and smacked the phone out of Mole's hand, sending it flying clear across the room. The Mole's green eyes stared back at Gregory, shocked and completely bewildered. A few seconds passed. Then Gregory realized how foolish he would sound, complaining about the tone Mole was using to talk to someone, and he flushed horridly and ran away, beet-red, leaving The Mole struggling to understand what in the hell the point of all that violent behavior had ever been.

And it took so long, but Gregory was eventually forced by his own conscience to (attempt to) accept the fact that, perhaps…there could and would be two significant _others_ in his best friend's life. There was he, Gregory Thorne, for one…and perhaps that other…well…_other_…was to be Kyle Broflovski.

That little Jewish _prat._

It hurt, Gregory thought miserably, but it had to be accepted. For The Mole's sake. For his _own_ sake. All the insane jealousy needed to stop. Because it was getting rather tiring, smacking phones around and then running off like a ninny. Plus, it failed to have the desired effect on The Mole: he would usually start to laugh, as of late, and then he would tell _Ky-el_ about it, and they would laugh _together_.

_Hell and damnation._

The Mole could _not_ be shared. That became quite painfully obvious. Something absolutely _had_ to be done…so, while puffing out his English chest and holding his head high, Gregory decided that _he_ would do something about it all, even if it killed him to do it.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

On most days, bedtime was still looked forward to with as much fervor as it had been before the separation, though on this particular night, Gregory couldn't bring himself to grin as Katherine came in to bid him good-night.

The boys had separate rooms now, being old enough for such things (at least, by their mothers' standards), and Gregory stared at his mother as she tucked him in. He wondered if she had any idea that The Mole had died in the time that he and Gregory had been apart from one another. She felt his hard blue eyes on the side of her face, and she met his gaze, smiling reassuringly at him and brushing flaxen curls behind his ear. "What, baby? What's wrong? Are you nervous about your second year of camp coming up?"

"…No, Mum…not so much," he said truthfully, furrowing his eyebrows at her. In all honesty, he hadn't even been thinking about camp at all over the past few weeks. He grabbed her hand and pressed it to his chest, carefully rubbing it, almost in consolation of some unknown pain. Her smile faltered, her eyes flashing with concern. He sighed and closed his eyes, knowing how strange his request was going to sound to her. "…Mum, I…tomorrow…what were we going to do?"

Katherine gave her son a puzzled look. "Sweetheart, you know what we're going to do. You and I are going down to South Park again for a while so that I can talk to Sheila Broflovski about a few things, and you can play with Kyle."

Gregory flinched visibly. He knew damn well what his mother had planned for them. He knew damn well that The Mole knew about it, as well. But more importantly, he knew damn well that it was about time that he set his own emotions aside for once and think of what _truly_ mattered, now. For years The Mole had been almost without parents and without people who loved him altogether, and Gregory had recently realized that he could and _would_ provide those loving figures for his friend, if need be. He would give The Mole his _own_ mother and set him free into the world, if need be. 

God damn it all to hell if Mole liked Kyle better. At least he would be _happy_ with Kyle. At least Kyle could still make him laugh, and smile, and…

…_Oh, God…please…_

Gregory swallowed a painful lump in his throat. "…Mum," he said quietly, tracing each faint wrinkle in the skin of her hand, "…I want…I want you to bring Christophe with you tomorrow. Instead of me."

…There was an awkward pause between them, and Katherine's eyes did not comprehend what her son had said. She sat down on the floor at his bedside and laced her long fingers with his short, stubby ones, looking deep into his sad eyes and trying to grasp what he was asking her. "…Gregory…I don't get it, honey. Why? Do you not like Kyle, or—?"

"Mum, I just…" he took in a shaky breath and let it out again. He closed his eyes. "…Please, Mum. Just take Christophe and leave me here with Ms. Delorne."

Katherine squeezed his hands. "Gregory, please, sweetheart, tell me what's wrong…why are you so upset about this?" He shuddered and wished she would just understand. Mothers could be so difficult. She brushed hair behind his ear again. "…Would it make you feel better if I brought _both_ of you?"

Gregory ground his teeth and felt the tears threatening behind his eyelids. _That's just what they'll be expecting, isn't it? For me to force them together in my presence, so I cun _spy_ on them?_

"_No,_ Mum! Just take _him!_ Leave me here! I don't _want_ to go! Just take him with you and…and t-tell him everything that you're always telling _me!_ Tell him that…that he m-makes you proud, and that he's…g-growing into such a h-handsome young man…" he sobbed. His hands were shaking in his mother's grasp. He couldn't even remember the last time he had cried out of anger in front of this woman. "Muh-M-Mum, _please_…"

Katherine pulled him into her and kissed his ear, pressing him into her chest. He could hear her heart beating quickly through her ribcage, and he could tell that he had frightened her with his sudden and strange demand, but he didn't care. As long as Mole wound up with the love that he needed, everything would be all right. His arms hung limply at his sides. "…Gregory…" she whispered, and he could hear her worry in her tone. "…Baby, please don't cry like this…just tell me what's bothering you…"

The blonde boy closed his eyes and sniffed hard, shaking uncontrollably in his mother's arms. He hated that The Mole had never known this feeling; being loved by the woman who had carried you for nine months before you had come into the world…the woman who fed you when you were little and gave you baths against your will. He let out a little whimper and couldn't imagine the pain of having his mother tell him that she wished he were dead. All he wanted was to take that away, to replace that emptiness with the warmth and affection that should have been there to begin with…but how could he when he didn't even understand it?

"…Mum…I w-want…I want you to t-tell me…" he cringed and clung to her shirt, "…that y-you _hate_ me."

That uncomfortable silence again.

"…Gregory, I don't see—"

"_Goddamnit Mum puh-p-pluh-please just SAY IT!_"

"_NO!_" Katherine hissed, cupping her son's face in her hands and forcing him to look back up at her. She didn't even seem to notice that he had sworn. "Gregory, I do _not_ hate you! I could _never_ say that to you! I love you more than _the air I breathe_, and God strike me down where I stand if I ever so much as _consider_ thinking otherwise! Now damnit, Gregory, t-tell me why you're acting like this!"

Gregory tried to pull away, hating it all more and more as the seconds passed. Katherine held fast to him and wiped the tears away when they spilled over his flushed cheeks, intent on getting an answer out of him. Gregory clenched his teeth and squeezed his eyes shut. "_Why can't you say it t-to me? N-Nicole says it to Christophe ALL THE TUH-T-TIME! I just w-want to understand h-how he fuh-f-feels!_"

Katherine's eyes widened in shock, and she let go of her son's tearstained face. He buried his eyes in his hands and shook his head, growling. "…Mum, I just…" he sniffed. "…I j-just want you to love him, t-tomorrow. Okay? P-please, just…l-love him for me…he needs t-to be loved…by a m-mother…please…l-love him instead of muh-m-me…"

Mrs. Thorne's gaze stayed, watery and shocked, on her son's weeping figure. For once in her life, she didn't know what the right thing would be to say to her son. "…Gregory…sweetheart…oh, _baby_…is that what's wrong?"

"…Mum, p-please don't t-talk about it like it's n-n-nothing…"

"I'm…I'm not…oh, Jesus _Christ_, Gregory…" She leaned forward and kissed his forehead, and his eyes met hers once more, leaking and glistening. She smiled proudly at him. "…Honey, you should have just said that to start with…I…oh…I think it's long past due for me to talk to Christophe about all of this. I'm sorry, sweetheart, I just…since you two got back from camp last year, Nicole has been so much _milder_, and I just didn't think…she had been hitting him, still…I've spoken with her several times about it…"

Gregory lost his grip then and was reduced to feeble sobbing, gasping for breath as his little hands clung to his bedclothes. Katherine sighed and whispered gentle reassurances to him, stroking his blonde hair as mothers will and carefully soothing him. Eventually she got him to quiet down, and, after telling him that she would gladly bring The Mole along with her on her trip to the Broflovskis' house tomorrow, she kissed his cheek and left his room. He stared up at the darkened ceiling, still sniffling, only partially satisfied. He had just made more problems for himself, hadn't he?

…_Damnit…_

He closed his eyes and tried to relax, but that was harder than he had planned. He felt restless, now, thinking about what Mole would say when he realized what Gregory had done. _Surely he'll be happy_, Gregory thought, exhaling shakily. _And he'll thank me. That's what he'll do. Because he just…he wants to be with Kyle, more than he wants to be with me._

He glared at his ceiling with stinging red eyes and rolled over to face the blank, blue wall. He pretended to be asleep when Mole came into the room and crawled into bed with him, and he kept up the farce until he heard his best friend's breathing weaken and slow behind him. Then he rolled back over again and kissed The Mole's open lips as hard as he could before crying himself to sleep and only half-knowing why.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

She was a damn crafty one. That was all that could really be said about his mother.

Somehow, Gregory found himself strapped in beside The Mole in the back of Mrs. Thorne's elderly Volkswagen, watching the French boy in fascination as he bobbed his head in time with a Veggie Tales classic.

"_Everybody, everybody, everybody, everybody,  
__Everybody, everybody, everybody's got a water buffalo…_"

The blonde honestly had no idea how he had wound up in this rather vulnerable position. After their conversation the night before, he had been confident upon waking up this morning that he would be spending the day with Ms. Delorne. In fact, he had prepped himself for the occasion, practicing staying out of everyone's way as well as he could all morning long. But Katherine, sly as she was, had pulled him out of the door at the pre-decided time along with Mole and locked the both of them in the car without so much as a word. The Mole so far seemed oblivious as to where they were going, enthralled by the bizarre tidings of the singing vegetables, and Gregory was still having a hard time figuring out just why the bloody hell his mother would want to deceive him as she had.

The road was still icy, heading into South Park, even though it was well into June. They drove slowly and both boys took time to glance out the windows at the familiar scenery, catching Stark's Pond, the elementary school, Tom's Rhinoplasty. The accustomed surroundings seemed to dull the shock in Gregory's mind, and he began to feel a bit of anger toward his mother. He had _asked_ her…no…he had _told_ her _not_ to bring him here today. She would be hearing it later, he thought to himself, sinking down into his seat as they pulled into the Broflovskis' driveway.

"We're here," Katherine said in a sing-song voice, turning the car off and then looking into the rearview mirror. She was met with the extremely puzzled face of The Mole and the furious gaze of her son. She smiled weakly at the two of them. "Christophe…this is Kyle Broflovski's house. Gregory suggested that you come along today."

"Ky-el?" Mole repeated, and Gregory flinched when the green eyes fell on his face. "…Really, Gregory? You asked your muzar to bring me?"

"I…_instead_," Gregory mumbled, his ears hot. "_Instead_ of me. _I_ shouldn't be here. I should be at home—"

"Nonsense, you'll have more fun here, with Christophe and Kyle," Katherine said, pulling open his car door and flinging him out of the Jetta before he had a chance to react. Mole was beaming as he joined them, and the three of them stood on the front porch while Mrs. Thorne rang the doorbell, Gregory muttering curses under his breath and The Mole rocking cheerily back and forth on his feet.

Sheila Broflovski answered the door. She was not a very lovely woman, Gregory thought to himself: he had seen her on television before, while the war had been going on, and the camera most certainly did _not_ add ten pounds. It didn't _need_ to. She was large, bigger than Wilma Williams, maybe, and with just as mean a face. She had a sharp, hooked nose, and naturally angry eyes that added to her hawk-like look. Her red hair was swept back into a bouffant, as it always had been before, and she looked down at Gregory and the Mole from underneath the crimson monstrosity as she stepped into the open doorway. Gregory moved back cautiously. Her breasts had the potential to crush his skull, and he wasn't about to take any unnecessary chances.

"Ahh, Katherine!" she said loudly, smiling in a way that made her look like she was in pain. "This must be Gregory! Oh, he's so _handsome!_" She pinched his cheek without any provocation. The Mole smiled. "How _are_ you all? Oh, and this little one? This is…Christopher, is it? How wonderful, Kyle's been _dying_ to see you again, Christopher, you're all he talks about. Here, here, come in! May I take your coats? I hope you like coffee, Katherine, I've got a fresh pot brewing in the kitchen."

Gregory's head spun, and his cheek ached from where she had vise-gripped it. She didn't give an instant's time to answer any of her questions before she swept the three of them into her house and shut the door behind them. The house was warm, but it smelled like a mixture of shoe polish and Lysol, and the front room was extremely bland and uninviting. Gregory pursed his lips in disapproval.

"Oh, Kyle's playing in the living room, boys. Just make yourselves at home," Sheila boomed, leading Katherine into the kitchen and continuing to babble on as she did so. Katherine had an expression on her face that was strikingly similar to Gregory's. The Mole grinned and took Gregory's arm.

"Come, Gregory, let us _make ourselves at 'ome_," he mocked Mrs. Broflovski, earning a disgruntled sigh from the Brit. The two of them kicked off their shoes in the doorway and left their coats by the stairs, making their way casually into the living room.

Kyle was, like his mother, just as Gregory remembered him: short, thin, pale, and red-headed. He was sitting on the carpet in the middle of the room, playing with a very cool remote-controlled truck. He glanced up at the two European boys as they stepped into the room, and a wide smile spread across his face almost instantaneously.

"Mole!" Kyle said happily. "God, it's great to see you!"

Gregory's blue eyes flitted to The Mole's shining face as the French boy walked forward and took Kyle into a very familiar embrace. Gregory's hands balled into fists at his sides, and he struggled to will himself not to glare at Kyle. Mole took the startled Kyle's hands in his and quickly kissed the side of his face.

"Ahh, Ky-el, 'ow are you? Ze only sing about South Park zat I meesed…such a pleasure to see you again," The Mole said softly, and Gregory's knees locked when the French boy turned around and gestured to him. "You know Gregory, of course…'e was een your class! Gregory, come now, _mon chéri_, be polite."

The blonde's eyes widened, and he flushed when Kyle gave him a puzzled look. "…_Mon chéri?_" he echoed as Mole sat beside the truck and examined it more closely. "…Doesn't that mean, like, 'my _darling_' or something?"

"_Mon chéri, mon ami, mon amour,_ my dear, my friend, my darling, my love…'oo cares, eet eez all affectionate," The Mole explained airily. Gregory blushed a deeper red and rushed to sit low beside Mole to hide it from Kyle. "Come, Ky-el, show us 'ow zees marvelous truck of yours works."

Kyle, thankfully, shrugged it off and joined them back on the floor, proceeding to explain the dynamics of the truck's remote to his two guests. Gregory tried his best to be captivated—it was, after all, quite the truck—but he was far too distracted by the way that Mole kept looking at Kyle. He swore he caught a smile or two beyond the one on the French boy's lips, and he wanted to yell, but he knew that was what Kyle would be expecting. He had been able to tell from the look on the redhead's face as he had stepped into the room to begin with that he still had not been completely forgiven for his anti-Semitic outburst a few weeks ago in school.

Thank God The Mole didn't know about that.

Gregory pulled back into reality when both Kyle and Mole suddenly stopped talking in mid-sentence, and he perked up, listening hard for whatever had caught their attention. He realized, with a dull sort of horror, that he could hear his mother talking to Mrs. Broflovski in the kitchen.

"…The war was _completely_ necessary!" Kyle's mother said. "It proved a very crucial point to both the people of America, and to the people of Canada!"

A brief pause. Then Katherine spoke. "Well…regardless of that, and whatever point you think it helped to prove, I'm sure that you can see now that the whole thing was unethical. And really, Sheila…I want to know what the hell you even _thought_ the point of it all was, because I really don't see—"

"Don't you talk to me about _ethics_, Katherine!" Sheila retorted, sounding extremely offended."You're_ British, _you don't know _anything_ about American ethics! We here in the States believe in raising our children to be _civilized_, not…_wild_ and _mangy_, like that little beast of a boy you brought with you today!"

Gregory's hands balled into fists, and he heard his mother let out an audible gasp. "How can you _say_ that sort of thing about an _eight-year-old_ _boy?_ Christophe has…he has problems with his mother…emotional trauma that stems from _very_ early on in his childhood…surely Kyle told you about that?"

"Kyle didn't need to tell me _anything._ That boy broke the _law_, Mrs. Thorne, he broke into a military establishment and attempted to free two convicted criminals—"

"They weren't _criminals_, Sheila! For goodness sake, haven't _you_ ever said a swear word? It's _all over television!_ Sue the American network CEOs, if you _must_ cause a riot!" A thud echoed out of the kitchen: Katherine had slammed her fist down on the table. "And I still do not understand why you would send _rabid dogs_ off in pursuit of a _child!_ I believe that _you_ should be executed for doing something like that, because it's just _sick!_"

"…Are you raising both of those boys in there, Katherine?" 

Another cold, uneasy pause.

"…I do my best to raise them both, yes, and they are both very intelligent and extremely kindhearted children," Katherine said, as calmly as she could, though Gregory heard the waver in her voice.

"I don't care how smart or nice you think they are, Mrs. Thorne. What you need to do is stop pampering them; you need to learn how to punish them, and how to get them under control. For God's sake, one of them has already committed a _felony!_ I swear, foreigners don't understand a _thing_ about children—!"

The sound of something porcelain hitting the floor and breaking. Sheila shrieked. Katherine exploded.

"_HOW **DARE** YOU SPEAK TO ME LIKE THAT! YOU ARE SO FUCKING **PREJUDICED…!**_"

They continued to shriek at each other. Kyle stared at the carpet, trembling, and for a moment, Gregory felt almost sorry for him. The Mole was tugging at a thread on his sleeve, trying to look distracted, though the Brit could tell that his friend was very upset about what was going on between the two women in the kitchen. Gregory, honestly, was proud of his mother for standing up for The Mole like that.

It was what _he_ would have done, after all.

It ended rather quickly. Katherine stormed out of the kitchen, her face redder than Gregory had ever seen it, and she gingerly patted Kyle on the head and bid him an extremely strained farewell before she gathered up her boys and pulled them back into the front room to get their coats and shoes on. Gregory complied as quickly as he could, almost afraid of his mother, now that she was angry and he could witness it firsthand. As he was ushered out the front door and Mole whispered a pained "bye, Ky-el…", he thought that he had registered the sounds of the mighty Mrs. Broflovski weeping in the kitchen. The door slammed behind them before he had a chance to confirm his suspicion, though, and he hurried to the car, sliding into the backseat with the very distressed Mole as his mother slammed more barriers after them and climbed into the driver's seat.

They were off and rolling again in a matter of seconds, the Veggie Tales quieted very hastily after they started singing again. Katherine was mumbling curses to herself, and Gregory stared out the window, pretending not to hear her.

"…That bloody woman, who does she think she is? Calling me _ignorant,_ calling me a fucking _loon_…thinks all foreigners are goddamn _terrorists_, fuck her…saying those things about Christophe…she _deserved_ it, Katherine, Christ…she deserved it all…bloody _bitch…_"

…Out of nowhere, it occurred to Gregory that he had never heard his mother say the word "fuck" before. In fact, it was a word that he had never expected to hear her say. She just seemed too calm and happy to swear like that.

…But still, smiling secretly to himself as she fumed in the driver's seat of the prehistoric Jetta, he absolutely _loved_ that she had said it in defense of The Mole.


End file.
